


Raise The Stakes

by ymaface



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 47,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymaface/pseuds/ymaface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I would hear something beautiful, if it please you.”<br/>Sansa Stark, the beloved daughter of Winterfell, is stolen by the King Beyond the Wall. AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Completely AU. Jon Snow was stolen as a child and brought up alongside the wildlings. Eddard Stark refused the offer as Hand of the King. R+L=J

 

 

The crimson cloaked singer watched the festivities with a look of vague amusement. Perched upon one of the many benches he watched as the pampered lords, fat from good food and wine, feasted and merrily danced into the late hours of the night. He was singing along to the music, nursing a goblet of watered down wine. The lords and ladies implored him for song after song - so unused they were to singers this far north, they admitted. He recalled bawdy songs, heroic songs, and songs that were sure to appease the Stark family. At the end of one rendition he was drawn forward and presented to the ever noble family and he sunk into a deep mocking bow that they mistook for mummery.

Lord Eddard Stark himself greeted him from his high seat behind the dais. Unlike the other lords he was quenching his thirst with plain water. “My daughter loves singers. Indulge her, if you would be so kind.”

Two girls sat at his table but right away he guessed it was the one perched at their mother’s side. She was gazing at him in such wonder that for a second he thought wickedly about revealing his true self and watching, undoubtedly, as her face crumpled into disdain.

“Certainly. Would the young lady care to hear of poor sad Alysanne? Or Brave Danny Flint?” He strummed a loose note carelessly. “Or mayhaps something else. Her Little Flower, perhaps? Or the Dornishman’s wife?”

The boys at the table all chortled but the girl only blushed. “I would hear something beautiful, if it please you.”

Once more he dropped into his bold mocking bow and struck up the tune to a playful song of love and beauty. When he was done he was rewarded with a broach of seawater pearls for his efforts and the girl turned to talk with a brother, the singer dressed in red at once forgotten. He thanked the lord and resumed his seat, although this time his light-hearted gaze was instantly drawn back to the dais.

She was no northern lass. This daughter of Stark was a proper young lady with all the charms and courtesies her high birth could afford her. Her face was all delicate sweeps and flushed cheeks; her lips a pouting pink rosebud; her almost bottomless blue eyes wide and innocent; her high brow fine. He could see plainly that she was made for silks; meant for southeron sunsets. When she laughed she did so politely, drawing a dainty hand up to her lips as though she could barely contain her mirth. When she stood to dance he saw that her figure was slender and pretty but it looked no good for enduring the harsh winters ahead. No doubt Stark planned to marry her off beyond the Neck to a summer time family where all her wishes and desires could come true.

At ten and thirteen she was already a beauty but one day she would be magnificent. Best of all was her hair; long tresses of auburn so warm that beneath the candlelight it looked almost red. It reminded him of roasted chestnuts, sunsets, and cinnamon. Utterly kissed by fire. He wondered if maidens high born into privilege were extra lucky?

Such a prize would be hard won. She was the eldest daughter of the honourable Lord Stark who knew full well the dangers facing dreamy young Stark girls. He kept her close at hand in the castle and never once in all his days of spying had this singer seen her venture outside. She would no doubt be fully proficient in the womanly arts of music and needlework but her knowledge of the world outside was in its infancy. Such a prize plum was all too tempting to a wildling who believed that the greater risks were all the better. The man who could steal Sansa Stark from beneath her great father’s nose would be a hailed above the Wall as a hero.

He decided that would steal her. Tonight, if it were possible. The cold snows might be the death of her but perhaps there was some steel beneath that pretty face. She would need it.

He waited until the castle was asleep before treading along the silent hallways towards her bedchamber. There were two guards positioned at her doors but he made quick use of the short blunt dagger he kept tucked into his boot. They were already half asleep and so he took them utterly unawares, slashing their throats simply for good sport. Slipping inside was also easy but there was a certain slyness to it all that brought a fiendish joy to his heart. He crept to her bedside and, without even realising it, froze in his place.

She was asleep, obviously, but laying so rigidly that she looked like she could be made from stone. The moonlight drifted in from the open window and fell across her so perfectly that he had to wonder if it wasn’t purposefully done. The skin above her nightshift was as white as snow and as she breathed her chest gently rose and sunk like a lightly ebbing wave. Her plump lips were slightly parted and her hair looked almost black as it fell across her pillow in scattered curls. It seemed almost a shame to wake her up and ruin this perfect scene of innocence.

He was about to shake her shoulder when her eyelids fluttered open. For a moment she simply looked at him sleepily, her eyes cloudy with sleep, but then he watched as those same eyes widened, realising at last that this was not her father come to give her a goodnight kiss or a brother to check she was safe. She swallowed visibly. “Who are you?” she whispered.

_She should be screaming_ , he thought. _She should be shouting for help. Not asking me who I am._

“My name is Mance. I’m here to steal you, my lady.”

She sat up and the blankets pooled at her waist. Her eyes flickered over to the door and he was unsurprised to see panic there. In the moonlight her bright eyes seemed to almost shine.

“Doubtless your father has warned you about the dangers of being abducted.”

She licked her lips and he saw that she was shivering. Goosebumps lined her arms and neck. “Why?”

“Because your father is an enemy to my people. Taking you will show him that the Wall means nothing. Because for hundreds of years your people have hunted my people and it is time we got our revenge. Because your hair is kissed by fire. Pick one.”

Before she could say anything else he tore the blanket off her bed before ripping off two small strips. He used one to truss up her ankles. “So you can’t run,” he explained. “Forgive me but I must gag you with the other. If you scream during our escape the guards will be sure to hear.” She said nothing throughout the process though her eyes flashed when he threw her warm cloak around her shoulders. He only chuckled, “You’ll thank me for that. It’s cold where we’re going - very cold.”

Once she was wrapped up securely he pulled her over to the open window and beckoned for her to wrap her arms around his neck. She seemed to understand then that they were going to climb down, and she desperately shook her head. “If you don’t hold on you will fall.”

Reluctantly she put her little arms around his neck and clasped her hands. He felt her face pressed against his back and once he was sure she was holding tight enough began to climb out of the window. As they descended he heard her moan into the gag but it was safe enough as long as he wasn’t startled. He had climbed the Wall three times now and was no stranger to it – besides, she weighed hardly anything. As soon as they touched the ground he threw her over his wide shoulder and hurried towards the stables where he left his stolen horse the previous morn.

It was almost too good to be true. The daughter of Winterfell, the darling daughter of Lord Stark, was bound and flung over his shoulder. Lord Stark would wake up the next morning to find her bed empty and send out search parties that could never hope to find them. He would be sure to find the knife left carefully on the bedside table, its handle unmistakably made from mammoth bone. Only a wildling could own such an object.

And once they were over the Wall there was nothing he could hope to do.

He might venture to the Wall with his trail of guards but he would never risk taking them further. The land opposite was hostile and unknown to him; it would be certain death to any of them. He would have to retreat to Winterfell empty handed to face his tearful wife and hot headed sons. Perhaps they in turn would come, their heads filled with youthful bravado and spirit, but those pampered lordlings would be no match for the deathly snows.

_Besides_ , he thought, as she aimed a well placed kick to his stomach. _She was a plum prize for any man_. 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Bael the Bard was a legendary figure beyond the Wall. Crones would beguile the youngsters with tales of his exploits and in turn they would play at it with their friends, each time taking it in turns to play Bael or the lord. Mance admired the man’s daring but didn’t compare it with his own feat. Bael, in revenge for being named a coward, had infiltrated old Brandon Stark’s court and taken his daughter to wife, leaving his son as the only heir to Winterfell. Mance had kidnapped the current lord’s daughter but his intentions were not as scandalous as that. For all her unique beauty this daughter of Stark was still a child and a weak one at that. As soon as they were out of sight he wrapped her up in layer upon layer of thick furs but she still whimpered from the cold. She sat shivering in front of him in the saddle with her little head bowed down against the wind. He was worried about her frailty for it would be a fine joke to go to such lengths and have nothing to show for it at the end. She seemed to be a sweet child too and he was not in the habit of leaving children to die for no good reason.

Apart from the occasional plea to turn back they rode in silence for the most of the day. Mance kept an almost gruelling pace and it was long past nightfall before he permitted them to stop. He managed to catch and roast a bird but the child barely ate more than a mouthful no matter how many times he prompted her. In the end he ended up eating her share too.  He managed to catch a few hours of sleep before sunrise and wasn’t at all afraid of leaving her untied; it would be suicidal to wander off and there wasn’t anywhere nearby she could run to. At the end of the next day they caught sight of the Wall but instead of going towards it they veered to the side and made their way around it.

“The horse needs to rest,” the girl said quietly. It was true, the animal was indeed slowing its pace, but up ahead Mance spotted four black cloaks against the snow. He immediately clamped a hand over her mouth and dragged her off the horse. He could see that they were armed with short blades but they were too busy warming their hands by the fire to notice any intruders. Mance slipped from the girl almost silently and within a matter of minutes it was over. He was no green boy; he moved with an almost impossible speed and seemed to expect the movements before they happened. His knives flashed and the men fell bleeding to the ground, their scarlet blood melting the pure white snow. He took a number of deep breaths to steady himself and brushed a hand across his face.

The girl was shaking and retching behind a tree. He had to take her arm to get her moving again.

“We can’t just leave them...the wolves will get them,” she whispered, stumbling as she tried to look back.

 _A perfect kneeler_. Mance looked at her for a moment, his gaze taking in her tear filled eyes and pale cheeks, and then deliberately crouched down beside one of the bodies. He gently brushed a hand against the sliced neck and when he straightened his fingers were scarlet. “Look at my hand,” he instructed and the girl flinched at the sight. “Blood...that’s all it is. Red water. You’d best get used to seeing it.” He wiped his hand on his breeches and tugged her onwards, an arm behind her back to hurry her pace. The horse had bolted at the sight of drawn swords and so they had to travel the rest of the way on foot.

It was growing dark but they had to reach the meeting point before they could rest. He’d arranged to be met at the Frostfang pass at first light and if they were late his people would move on without him – a decision he’d passed himself. The Stark girl’s impractical shoes were little more than scraps of silk now so in order to ease her burden he threw her over his wide shoulder and carried her. When they reached the clearing he lay her down with surprising care and covered her with his own cloak. They were sheltered from the wind by a collection of large mossy rocks but it took some time before he could start a fire.

“Where are we?” she whispered. Her lips were blue.

“At the Frostfang pass, just north of the Wall,” he replied. “We’re waiting for help.”

“F-from wildlings?”

“From wildlings,” he agreed. “There’s no food here and only a fool would step foot into those woods alone. You’ll have to wait until the others get here to eat.”

“I don’t care. I’d sooner starve than take wildling food.”

“You’ll be surprised how quickly your resolve will crumble when you get hungry, lady,” Mance commented lightly. “Starving people rarely choose to be that way.”

She blinked at that but chose not to go on. She’d probably never gone without a meal in her life.

“Please...What are you going to do with me?” She’d obviously been waiting for a long time to ask and finally plucked up the courage. No doubt she was thinking about all the old stories her nurse had told her about wildlings...of how they ate flesh and sacrificed children to their wild gods. Or perhaps she was thinking about the dangers her septa had warned her about.

He sat down beside her in the snow, pulling his own cloak around his knees, and spoke gently. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to take you back to my tribe.”

“What then?”

“You’ll be a wildling. You’ll work, you’ll cook, you’ll mend...all the things womenfolk do.”

She let out a sob. “You might as well just kill me and get it over with.”

“I’m not in the habit of killing children,” he assured her frankly. “You’ll be fine.”

“Just stealing them.”

Mance laughed at that, pleased by the flash of spirit even if it was more miserable than fearsome. “It wasn’t personal. I guessed you’d be less trouble than that unruly sister of yours.”

 _And your hair is kissed by fire_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa awoke with a start and had to rub the frost from her eyes. It was bitterly cold and her limbs felt frozen solid. All she wanted to do was curl up in the snow and drift off to sleep but she knew that would mean certain death for sure. That was not an altogether repulsive idea but something - some stubborn streak buried within - told her to get up and move. Slowly and awkwardly she stood and tried to stamp some life into her worn out feet.

The wildling who called himself Mance was looking out at the fast approaching figures with a relieved smile and Sansa watched from beneath her hood. This man was younger than her father but there were already grey streaks in his otherwise dark brown hair. His dark eyes were warm but filled with such cunning that she supposed nothing ever escaped his notice. She wouldn’t be able to distract this man with a pretty smile or wide eyes. He was as strong as one of her father’s guards, throwing her up over his shoulder as though she weighed no more than a doll, and that fact alone frightened her. Unlike her father’s guards he could use it against her. She turned her attention to where he was looking and felt a shiver of fear ripple down her back.

There were three sleighs in all, all pulled by snapping dogs the size of wolves. They looked much sturdier than horses and glided across the snow as easily as silk across skin. She found herself edging behind Mance. He was wicked for stealing her, but for some reason she trusted that he meant her no harm.

The riders arrived with a flurry of shouts and whistles and the dogs came to a standstill. They were so well wrapped up in leathers and fur that at first Sansa had a hard time telling them apart. The largest man, with shoulders as wide as a bull, was the first to come forward and he clapped Mance on the back like an old friend. “Mance! How were the kneelers?” He roared. “Bring us back any fine trinkets – or better yet, any o’ that southeron wine?”

“Not his time, Tormund. Something far better,” Mance chuckled. He gestured to Sansa and she shrank back, grasping tightly at her furs. She couldn’t be sure because of their low hoods but they all looked to be male. They looked at her approvingly.

“Stolen yourself a gal, Mance? Dalla’ll be pleased,” Tormund snorted. “Not much teats to speak of.”

Sansa blushed, or she might’ve done if she wasn’t so cold, but Mance seemed well used to this sort of coarseness. “This isn’t just any girl. Pass me those furs, would you? I’m freezing my arse off. Toregg, get her on the back of your sled and make sure she’s wrapped up tight.”

A tall wildling tried to take her arm but she furiously threw him off, scowling. Back home nobody would dare to handle her like this and she was getting tired of the constant pulling and prodding. She settled herself onto the back of his sleigh, making sure to tuck the furs around her feet and hands. She huddled down into its warmth, all the while looking around at this strange assortment of folk. Mance and this Tormund took another sleigh, deep in conversation, while the others shuffled back to their original positions. Within minutes they were off and skidding across the vast snowy plains.

She was frightened. These men shouted across to each other in a strange unintelligible tongue and she would jump whenever Toregg let out his deafening laugh. He was masterly guiding the sleigh behind her but she avoided the urge to look around at him because of the axe belted to his side. Its blade was as large as her forearm and she could see crusted blood at the edges. The man driving the sleigh ahead had an enormous shield strapped to his back with a horrible crude skull painted onto what looked like sheepskin...or at least she hoped it was sheepskin. These men were well armed with all types of weapons although had she been interested in weaponry she might’ve noticed that they were all blunt and badly wrought. Instead she turned her head outwards and stared at the passing country, trying to find anything she might put to memory, but all she saw were bare trees and frozen lakes. Once she saw what might’ve been a couple of makeshift huts but they looked long deserted.

They stopped by a frozen lake for some food and drink a few hours later. Sansa took one look at the almost raw meat and quickly refused her serving, sipping instead from the wineskin Mance passed her. The drink inside was so strong and thick that it made her cough and so she settled back down in the sleigh to wait, all the time willing herself not to cry in front of them.

“Here.”

She looked up and found one of them holding out a wizened apple. She muttered her thanks and took it, holding it in both hands as though it were made from gold. “Are we close?” she asked him quietly.

His eyes were so grey they looked almost black. Unlike the others he had a sombre sort of face and he looked at her without any trace of humour. “We’ll be there before nightfall.” Without another word he left and she bit into the apple ravenously, savouring the almost sour taste of it.

The village, for she didn’t know what else to call it, consisted of fifty or so huts made from strong wood with carefully thatched roofs. They were scattered about without much order but in the centre stood a larger construction with a cloud of smoke rising from the top in spirals. The homesteads had patterns painted onto the doors and walls, much like the shield from before, and several had strung up crude decorations of cracked shells and kindle wood that swung in the wind. It was a bleak sight, but no more so than the inhabitants; grim faced men with axes, scowling women shouting after bare headed children, and the wrinkled elderly muttering behind their hands.

Toregg pulled her up from the sleigh and she was forced to follow Mance towards the largest hut. The ground was slippery with mud but they’d tied up her wrists before arriving and she found it difficult to keep her balance. Wildlings were crowding up around them, keen to see what Mance had brought back, and she stumbled through the throng. Her shoes were useless now and she felt the mud seep through to her toes.

The largest hut was about four times the size of the others and there was a makeshift set of stairs leading up to its doors. Sansa was used to Winterfell’s strong stone walls, safe in the knowledge that it would last another thousand years. Her home was not perhaps what she considered beautiful (from the songs and sketches she believed that Highgarden and King’s Landing were beautiful), but there was a certain masculine splendour about it that she admired. Everything here above the Wall was crudely made; she could see no beauty here. Mance bounded up the steps and held up his hands to silence his gathered clan kin below, who were eager for answers.

He shouted, “Brothers, sisters! Did you miss me? I’ve travelled through storms and ice to reach you. My friends, I journeyed far beyond the Wall to the very heart of Winterfell! I took my little lute with me and made merry in the Lord Stark’s very own court. I played sweet and bawdy tunes for the kneeling lordlings as they stuffed their faces with fine wine and food – their bellies so large they wobbled! They were covered with gold, my friends, with trinkets and jewels. One thought to gift this noble singer with a pin of pearls but you know what? I waited ‘till he was drunk in his cups and robbed the lot.”

There was a chorus of laughter and he threw out various trinkets that twinkled in the light. He waited a moment until the pushing and shoving stopped and then continued. _He’s playing with them_ , Sansa realised.

“But that was not all I took, my friends. For sitting at her mother’s side was a girl of such rare loveliness that it seemed a shame not to bring her back here for you all to see. My lady...”

At this point she was lifted up onto the steps beside him. Mance held out his hand and she had no choice but to take it, hoping against hope that he would leave her be. It hurt to hear these people snort over her ancestral home and one man had even spat at her beloved father’s name – a crime punishable by whipping at home.

“Feeling lost without someone to kneel down to? Kneel down for our King Beyond the Wall,” someone jeered. “Grovel on yer belly!”

“She can kneel down in front of me, if she likes,” someone joked and they all sniggered.

Sansa cringed away from their cruel savage looks.

Mance was laughing too. “Take no notice of them, lady, they’re a wicked lot.”

“So stolen y’self a gal, Mance?”

“Not just any girl, my friends...” Mance smiled. “But the treasure of Winterfell. This is Lord Eddard Stark’s firstborn daughter Lady Sansa Stark.”

The crowd hushed as they took in the news and then one by one they grinned – smiles stretching from ear to ear. They bellowed a cheer and complimented Mance’s daring and nerve. Stealing a girl from a nearby tribe was all well and good but taking one from across the Wall was considered the height of bravery. Taking the Lord of Winterfell’s daughter was legendary.

“Bael the Bard, eh?” Tormund came forward and clapped his hands. He’d thrown off his hood and a mane of curly ginger hair framed his face. “Brilliant! That’ll show this winter lord who’s really in charge. Poor sod.”

“And her hair’s kissed by fire!” Toregg announced. “Look...”

He pulled her furs away so that they might see better and Sansa was left standing in a threadbare nightgown of white cotton. The intricate lace sleeves had once delighted her heart but they were dirty and grey now. She quickly tried to cover herself with her clasped hands but this only fuelled their laughter, and a tear ran down her cheek from the shame. Only her sister Arya, her lady mother, and her septa had seen her so exposed. This was indecent and dishonourable. She tried to grab her furs back but Toregg had already thrown them into the whistling crowd.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” she whispered, hugging herself tightly, and Mance’s face softened. He opened the door to the largest hut and beckoned her to go on in.

Sansa didn’t need any encouragement. Inside the hut was smoky and humid with an enormous fire crackling in the centre. Two women were crouched beside it, roasting a hen above its flames, but they straightened up when they saw her. The hut was divided into different sections by thin wicker reeds weaved together to make walls and hanging lengths of cloth served as the doors. Beneath her feet was a pile of different animal furs and the softness alone eased her aching feet. One of the women spoke in the strange tongue but eventually switched to her own.

“So you’re the lord’s daughter?” She spoke quietly but there was an air of steel about her. She was a fine-looking woman with shining blonde hair and blue eyes but Sansa didn’t miss the dagger strapped to her belt. “They’ll be celebrating all night.”

“If it please you.” Sansa’s head swam from the sudden warmth. “Please...May I sit?”

The woman shrugged and Sansa settled down by the fire to warm her shaking hands. The woman came over and used her dagger to cut away her binds, ignoring her thanks. “Mance will go down in history for this,” she said to her companion.

The other woman smiled shyly. She wasn’t as pretty as the first but there was something equally appealing about her. She was also very obviously with child. “Mance the Bard...there’s not much of a ring to it. What’s your name, girl?”

“Sansa,” she whispered.

“I’m Dalla and this is my sister Val, and the child I’m carrying is Mance’s. I expect you’ll be staying here with us for now.”

Sansa was shown to a spare bed and for the first time in days she was left alone. She could still hear their voices through the thin walls but they’d gone back to speaking in their own tongue. She looked around the tiny room, eyes lingering on the sunken cot and shabby blankets they expected her to sleep on. She was so achingly tired but she didn’t want to close her eyes and leave herself defenceless while the crowd outside made merry. She thought very seriously about stealing the torch outside and holding it against the wooden walls but when she reached out to lift the material flap she lost her courage.

 _Arya would’ve_ , she thought. _She would’ve fought Mance tooth and nail. Instead I’m a prisoner...stuck here in this pigsty forever. The gods only know what they’ll do with me..._

Would he get her with child like Dalla or would he give her to one of his foul men? She thought about the giant Tormund or his grabby son Toregg and shuddered. A few months ago, after her first flowering, her mother came to her rooms and explained about her newfound womanhood. She’d warned her very seriously about the dangers she could find in men and that they were not all gallant and kind; a man could easily lose himself to a pretty face. Sansa had laughed at that, safe within the walls of Winterfell, but her father was no longer around to protect her. The men outside hated her father and took pleasure in humiliating her...nobody here would lift a finger to protect her.

Slowly she inched down onto the cot and tucked her knees up to her chest like she was a child. The tears came then, noisy unladylike sobs that wrung her chest and dripped down onto the musty sheets. She thought about her new goose stuffed bedding at home and her joy at finally moving out of the nursery – but she would give anything to be back in the old nursery bed now. Sometimes, when it was very cold, Arya or her little brother Rickon would crawl into that bed and cuddle up beside her, their freezing feet accidently kicking her own. It dawned on her that she would never see them again. Nor Bran or Robb. Robb was almost a man grown and would be riding out alongside her father to find her. She whispered a prayer to the Mother to help them.

 _Find me_ , she prayed. _Please find me_.

She wanted her mother so badly.

She cried herself to sleep that night and dreamt of Winterfell’s glass gardens. The blue winter roses would be blooming next month; she doubted she’d ever see them again.

Someone had left a pile of clothing beside her bed but she ignored them and huddled further down in the blankets. It was barely sunrise but already she could hear footsteps and voices. Back home she spent an hour dressing and brushing her hair before she went down to break her fast and even then she wouldn’t be expected to do her lessons until noon. She liked to waste her mornings gossiping with Jeyne Poole or sewing new tapestries for the walls. Obviously neither was an option here. Somebody called her name later on in the morning but she deliberately ignored it and they soon shuffled away. She heard somebody sigh and then Mance’s voice very calmly replied, “just leave her be. She’ll come out when she’s ready.”

She would _not_.

She found herself in tears again and wiped them away using the ragged blanket. That evening they tried once more to call her out but again she simply rolled over, clamping a hand over her ears. She didn’t care if they were annoyed – none of this was fair. She could starve away in this cot and die happy.

But then she really would never see Winterfell again.

She thought about her father; his grave long face and grey eyes; the way his beard scratched when he kissed her cheek; the way he used to pull her onto his lap when she cried.

Her father would be coming for her. He’d gone to war when his sister Lyanna was kidnapped by the Targaryen prince and so surely he would be marching north for his own daughter. Perhaps King Robert Baratheon, her father’s dearest friend, would march beside him with thousands of knights in shining armour. The king could command the Night’s Watch to help too. It was the sort of thing singers sang about...the Battle for the Daughter of Winterfell...or the War for Winters Child...She quite liked the idea of being in a song. She just had to make sure she was still alive when they got here.

_I am a Stark, yes, I can be brave_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's POV

 

Despite what Sansa thought there was some sort of order to the wildly scattered homes. The closest to the chieftain hall were reserved for the strongest and most capable of men or family members to the elected leader. The weak and the elderly were given the least secure homes on the outskirts; such were wildling values.

Jon lived alone in one of the closest homes to the hall but he rarely spent any time in it. It was such a prime location that many of his clan kin whispered about the waste of space for a single man when so many homes were overcrowded, but nobody sought to change it. Jon was a known recluse, preferring the company of his sword than to any of his clan folk. He rarely spoke up in clan meetings but when he did it was in a quiet severe voice that silenced any argument. He was a man grown with sixteen years under his belt but he rarely drank, he rarely feasted, and as of yet he’d never stolen a girl. People whispered about him behind their hands but they would never say anything to his face; besides being a ward of Mance Ryder he was known to be remarkably good with a blade.

Like most wildlings he had little enough possessions; everything he owned in the world could be packed up within an hour. He had his boiled leather armour, his shabby furs, several golden arm bands he’d won from a Thenn, and a wood carving of a wolf he’d whittled as a youth. And his sword, of course. The heavy long sword was the envy of his companions and he looked after it well, devoting hours to keeping it sharp and clean. Ever since he was big enough to run he’d wanted to be a great swordsman, shunning the favoured axe of his tribe in favour of blunt steel swords, but then several years ago he’d fought a Wall Crow and his prize was this long sword. He usually made a habit of avoiding the Crows but this one had been persistent. Usually if a Crow was lost in the snow he would lend him aid, unlike the rest of his clan who would sooner gut and rob them, but this one was new to his vows and stubborn. His incapability with the sword ultimately cost him his life and so Jon was left to wield it. His victory had earned him an amount of respect within the community that afforded him the right to do as he pleased. For the most part.

So that was Jon; silent, awkward, and without anything to fight for.

It was a week after Mance’s return and still the wildlings were celebrating. Every morning they woke to an enormous headache and bile in their bellies, but still work resumed as normal until the evening when they would crack open another case of spirits. Jon took no part in it. It seemed that he and the kneeler girl were the only two who didn’t. One morning he rose early and quickly wrapped himself up in his furs. It was a bitingly cold morning, the kind of cold that nipped at your fingers and toes, but there was not enough wood left to build a fire. His wood axe lay beside his sword, its handle rough and splintered compared to the beautifully wrought hilt of his sword. He heaved it over his shoulder and set out for the wood stock.

 He was almost there when a familiar cheerful voice called out to him.

“Heads up!”

Jon looked around only to be met with a face full of snow. Sighing, he wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. “It’s too cold,” he complained.

He liked Ygritte more than the other females in his clan even though her boisterous and loud ways clashed with his own. Often they would journey down to the lake together to fish and she would pull faces or tell jokes to make him laugh. They were of a similar age and had grown up together playing and squabbling.

“Don’t be so touchy,” she teased. “Anyway, I’ve been looking for you. That kneeling lass has finally wandered outside. I thought we could go an’ pelt her with snowballs or something.”

“I’m not interested in her.”

That was a lie as it was almost impossible not to find the newcomer interesting. She was so different to anyone he had ever met before by the way she looked and behaved. She blushed while others would laugh, she lowered her eyes to the ground when she should’ve glared right back, and she edged behind her kidnapper instead of slitting his throat. Some might call this weak, Ygritte certainly thought so, but Jon didn’t see anything wrong with the lack of bloodlust. Everybody seemed to be talking about her and their opinions all ran along the same lines; she was different, she was not trustworthy, and she was feeble. She might as well have been an entirely different species.

She was also undeniably beautiful.

Ygritte continued, oblivious to his thoughts. “You’re the only one then. Val told me she prays at night to her southeron gods and kneels down by the bed and everythin’. Can’t see the point of it – they’re not much use up here.”

“I suppose she needs the comfort.”

“Don’t get misty eyed over her just because she’s kissed by fire.” Ygritte laughed and brushed her own hair back. Her hair was red too but so curly is sprung around her shoulders, untamed and unmanageable. He used to muss it up when they were younger.

“Your hair is brighter,” he noted and she seemed pleased.

“Well I’m going to go find her. I’ll see you later.”

She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and disappeared in a bout of laughter. Jon frowned and continued on his way, his shoulders slumped. Ever since her first moon blood she’d started to act differently around him. She would fix him with bold stares, daring him to kiss her back, and tease him when he wouldn’t. She’d made it abundantly clear to the other wildlings that she wouldn’t mind him stealing her – even though they were from the same clan – until it was almost expected. He rather hoped somebody else would steal her first so he wouldn’t have to, even if that did mean losing her friendship.

When he reached the wood stock he removed his heavy fur cloak and swung down the axe. The wood stock was an important part of their village, a small muddy clearing just west of the last hut, where they could all go and collect kindling. In their clan they had no specific roles and therefore everybody pitched in where they could. Some people preferred to venture out into the forests directly but the wood stock was far safer and so it was always busy. Men with sweaty brows would chop the wood while women quickly piled it into woven baskets, their bored children tugging on their arms. It was early and so Jon began chopping a log into smaller pieces. It was tiring work but it eased his mind and the cold fresh air stung his lungs. He dropped several pieces into the basket of old Stein’s wife who thanked him for his kindness.

He heard a burst of laughter and looked up, expecting Ygritte to be sneaking up on him, but instead he stopped, his axe hesitating. The laughter did indeed belong to Ygritte but she wasn’t directing it at him for a change.

A few paces down the path the southeron girl was kneeling in the mud, frantically trying to pick up an armload of kindling. The spectacle had drawn half a dozen curious wildlings who were chuckling beneath their breaths.

“Just can’t stop herself from getting down on one knee,” Mardoll, who’d been stolen last spring from a nearby tribe, was stood beside Ygritte chuckling. They were speaking in the Old Tongue but the meaning was obvious.

The girl blushed and for a moment looked so miserable he thought she might cry. Jon recalled the sight of her crying after being stripped to her shift that very first night, which only earned further ridicule from the crowd. Jon had been among the others, watching silently as Mance blathered on about his great deed, but he took his leave after seeing that. The others found it amusing to see such a kneeler brought low but Jon had no wish to gloat over crying girls.

Without really thinking about it, Jon dropped his axe and went down on his knees to help her pick up the kindling. He could feel the surprised gazes on his back but the small crowd soon parted, immediately uninterested now he was helping her. Once they were done he helped her to her feet. The girl hesitated, clutching the bundle to her chest, before whispering her thanks.

He knew the southeron tongue better than most but still he had to pause to find the right words. “It’s no trouble.”

Apart from handing her that apple on their journey back this was the closest he’d been to her. Up close she had the same features as any of the other girls in his clan – lips, two eyes, a few freckles on her nose - but somehow he found it hard to look away. Her beauty really was extraordinary. He was used to calloused hands, chipped nails and chapped lips. He was unused to softness but the pale skin of her cheek looked to be as smooth as ice. He had an incredible urge to touch it, to see if it was as soft as he imagined.

He swiftly looked away, worried she might notice his staring, but to his immense surprise she was staring right back.

The words tumbled out before he could think. “What is it?”

She immediately dropped her gaze and frowned at her toes. “You just...You look like someone I know.”

“From home?”

She nodded but said no more. She was obviously keen to get away and almost ran back down the path. Jon watched her go, cursing his slow tongue, and turned back to his work while his thoughts unwillingly lingered on her face. It would not be his only encounter with her that day.

That evening he was summoned to the chieftain hall and sat beside the fire with Mance, Dalla, and several of the other men. He looked up to Mance a great deal for his prowess with a blade and for his light hearted spirit. He was a good soul, in truth, who would do anything it took to protect his tribe and Jon was more grateful than most. He felt indebted to him; he’d taken him to ward as a babe and brought him up like a son. He knew all about Mance’s ambitions concerning the Wall and if needed would gladly fight alongside him. They ate a quick meal of rabbit stew while Mance spoke of the Magnar of Thenn. Preparations for a large meeting of tribes were underfoot and Jon felt a shiver of anticipation at the thought of a wildling army. The wildlings in general rarely came into contact with one another, except in the interests of trade, and he doubted it would go smoothly. Wildlings didn’t listen to orders - that just wasn’t their way.

He listened curiously as they spoke about the Weeper, the skinchanger, the Dogshead woman, and finally the Lord of Bones. Each sounded as dangerous and untrustworthy as the last.

“Where would we meet?” Tormund asked, his mouth full. “I won’t have Thenn’s poking ‘round my hut. Light fingered, the lot of ‘em.”

Jon smirked at that. Tormund was new to their tribe, having come at Mance’s request, but his crude tongue had already endeared him to the clan. He was notoriously mistrustful of Thenn’s even though his own thick arms were adorned with stolen trinkets.

“The Crows have been spotted by the Fist of the First Men, so we’ll have to go north along the Milkwater,” Mance replied. “I’ll set off with a dozen fighters and spearwives, including yourself Tormund, if you fancy it. No need for more.”

“Sounds good to me. You’ll be missin’ the wee man’s birth, though. Dalla looks ready to pop.”

Dalla laughed, amused, and elbowed his side. “He’ll be back before the babe is born,” she assured. “It’s not time yet.”

Jon wasn’t so sure. She’d given up her leathers the previous month and her belly was straining against the muslin shift she wore. Mance smiled and patted the bump affectionately, looking completely at ease.

“You weren’t at the celebration the other night,” Mance noted to him as Dalla refilled their bowls. “Do you not like my little lady?”

“It’s not for me to say,” Jon said mildly.

“She’ll bring the Crows down on us, but it’ll be worth it. With her in my keeping I’ll be able to command the other clans to join us in our attack. She’ll be my shining beacon!”

“And what a beacon!” Toregg interrupted. “I have half a mind to steal her from you.”

“She shouldn’t roam outside the village,” Dalla decided. “Her hair alone warrants attention.”

“No stealing. We must make sure she’s protected,” Mance agreed. 

Just then the heavy doors opened and Val emerged looking frustrated. The kneeler girl came in behind her, her head bowed, and in one hand she held a blunted practice spear. She was dressed in the same clothes as earlier - he guessed they were Dalla’s as Val was too tall – and she looked hot and uncomfortable. Jon found himself listening in to their conversation and he wasn’t the only one.

Val was scolding her. “You’ll need to learn. Else you’ll get stolen.”

The girl didn’t look fazed and she smoothly passed Val the spear. “I’m already stolen.” Throwing a dark look over her shoulder at Mance, she pushed aside the flap to her sectioned off room and disappeared.

Tormund merely snorted. “I think she likes you, Val.”

“She won’t even _try_. I tried to show her how to hold it properly and she just looked at me like I was mad. How do they survive down south if they can’t even fight?” Val settled down beside them, shaking her head with irritation. Dalla passed her a bowl of stew and she delved into hungrily.

Mance answered. Having lived among the Crows for a spell he knew the most about the world beyond the Wall. “They have a different way of life to us. The women folk don’t fight in the south, or at least the noble lot don’t, so rely on their lords and knights for almost everything. Our little lady has been taught how to read and dance and very little of anything else.”

“Small wonder she’s so scrawny.”

Jon knew what a knight was. Wildlings had their own tales about the people on the other side of the Wall. Ever since he was a little boy he’d been told stories about their strange lives and customs, although admittedly he’d grown bored during most of them. Their lives seemed so frivolous to him; he who enjoyed hard work and plain speaking. The stories about knights, however, peaked his interest. They wore white shining armour made from the strongest of steel and their Valyrian steel swords were even better than his long sword. They were said to protect the weak and rescue fair maidens from dragons. Although he knew they were just stories he sorely wished to see a knight in battle.

He wondered if this lord’s daughter had met one.

“What are you planning to do with her?” he asked curiously.

“I shan’t take her with me. She’ll die of exposure that far north. Why? Do you mean to steal her from me too, Jon?”

“Of course not. I just meant...are you going to give her to anyone or...”

“Or take her myself?” Mance finished. “It’s not an unappealing thought, I’ll admit, but regardless of her beauty she’s little more than a child. I’ve grown rather fond of her, to tell the truth. I shouldn’t want her to come to any harm. I’ll be trusting you to look after her when I’m gone.”

“Me?”

“Not just you, but all of the fighters I’m leaving behind.”

Jon raised his eyebrows, surprised. He was a seasoned fighter with enough experience of the area to be chosen. Mance saw his surprise and snorted.

“I need someone here with an ounce of brains. Also I trust you not to try and supplant me in my absence.”

Jon smiled at that and Mance clapped him on the shoulder. Everybody was finished eating and so, inevitably, a casket of ale was opened. Jon was about to slip away when Dalla caught him by the arm with narrowed eyes. “Not tonight, you don’t. Go on and relax for once.” She pushed a full flagon at him and he meekly sat back down beside Tormund, who was already half-way through challenging his sons to a drinking contest.

The doors were opened and several more people joined their festive party. Mance, like all clan leaders, was careful to show he lived no differently to anyone else and so there were always an influx of people in his home. It gave the place a communal sort of feeling which was greatly appreciated after a hard day’s work out in the cold snow. Jon was content to sit before the fire and watch the drunken antics around him; Tormund and his sons were roaring with laughter, Dalla was sitting close to Mance and pouring drinks, and Val was intimately sat on the lap of the raider Jarl who couldn’t keep his hands off her breasts. Other people he didn’t know so well were clanking their cups together and singing along to imaginary music. After a few prompts Mance and a couple of spearwives called Rowan and Holly were accompanying them on their lutes.

Ygritte herself was sitting a few paces away, listening to something Biôrn said but every now and then she would look over at him and grin.

He nodded and sipped his drink, wincing at the strength. He was about to strike up a conversation with Tormund’s younger son Torwynd, but a swift movement in the corner of his eye captured his attention.

The kneeler girl. She slipped into the room wordlessly, looking around at the sudden horde with clear distaste. Her gaze swept over the cask of ale and she raised a hand to her parted lips. She’d removed her hood and without it her hair tumbled down around her shoulders in glossy soft waves. In the light of the fire it looked as bright as Ygritte’s. She seemed to be hesitating, obviously wanting something, but not knowing how – or _who_ \- to ask for it. She noticed Jon’s gaze and perhaps she remembered his earlier intervention for she crept to his side.

She regarded him nervously, wringing her hands. “Please...Might I have something to drink? Not...not _that_...but some water.”

“There’s a pail outside,” he replied, immediately tongue tied.

She glanced at the doors and when she made no motion to leave he realised she was waiting for him to get it. Feeling every inch the fool, he pushed through the crowd and after a few moments came back with a filled skin. “You just have to push them out the way,” he offered, resuming his place, but she gave him a sceptical look.

She sat crossed legged a few paces away from him, all the while looking around fretfully as though she expected an ambush. _I’d be the same, I suppose_ , he thought. She held the skin gingerly to her mouth and took a long sip. He couldn’t help but notice the long curve of her white neck in the firelight and shifted slightly.

 “No silver goblets, I’m afraid,” he commented lightly but she ignored him.

“You’ve helped me before,” she noted quietly. “Who are you?”

“Jon.” She finished and dabbed at her lips with her cuff.

“That doesn’t sound much like a wildling name.”

He shrugged but before he could say anything Jarl, on the hunt for more ale no doubt, stumbled into her. She flinched away like he was some vicious animal and scowled. He felt the sudden need to defend his rough well meaning clan, especially Jarl who was mostly harmless.  

“No one’ll hurt you, you know. We aren’t bad people.”

She glanced over at Mance. “He _stole_ me. Chances are I’ll never see my family and home again.”

They fell into silence. Apart from Mance Jon had no family and so couldn’t understand the deep longing she felt. He noticed Toregg and Torwynd behind them staring at her avidly, well within their cups, and across the room Ygritte was fuming. He knew that look well enough and was surprised that she was directing it towards the kneeler girl who obviously wished she was elsewhere.

“Have you ever seen a knight?”

She tilted her head and for a second looked hurt. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No.”

She seemed to believe him or at least she’d reached the point where she no longer cared about being teased. She was probably used to it by now. “Once. When Ser Barristan the Bold and Ser Jaime Lannister came to Winterfell with the king.”

He had no interest in kings. “What were they like?”

“Wonderful,” she said softly, glancing at him to see if he would laugh. When he didn’t she continued, starry eyed, and for a moment she was so lovely it hurt. He wanted to bottle her up and send her far away. She was not fit for these barren lands, or indeed the lands beyond the Wall; she belonged in poetry and in dreams. He could hardly believe she was sitting beside him in this hot smoky hall. “Ser Barristan is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and wore a beautiful long white cloak. He rescued the old King Aerys during the Defiance of Duskendale and defeated Ser Simon Toyne in single combat. He rescued Lady Jeyne Swann and her septa too. No man is better with a sword in the entire Seven Kingdoms, even though he’s quite old. He was kind too and so chivalrous,” she added wistfully. “Ser Jaime Lannister is a member of the Kingsguard too but he wore gold plated armour that shone as brightly as the sun. He is so handsome and was knighted at _fifteen_! He was the youngest knight in history. They call him the Kingslayer.”

Jon struggled to understand. He knew her tongue well, but she spoke so swiftly that some of it was hard to comprehend. “Why is he known as a Kingslayer?” he questioned. “If he is a member of the Kingsguard?”

“He killed the old king. Aerys the second, that is. My father says it was badly done, that he turned his back on his vow, but the king was mad so I suppose it was the right thing to do. The Mad King was very cruel to my family...” she swallowed and he guessed there was a tragedy there. “Don’t you know anything up here?”

“We don’t have kings,” he reminded her.

“What about Mance?”

Again they glanced over at the King-Beyond the Wall who was stroking Dalla’s blonde hair out of her face. The couple were whispering and laughing, completely at ease. “We chose him. We choose our own paths up here. We weave our own fates, our own songs, our own stories. We don’t just do as we’re told.” He thought about what Mance had said, about the way southeron woman were treated. Did she enjoy having so little choice in her life?

“Why do you want to hear about knights then?”

“I heard stories. You respect them?”

“Oh yes. I always ask Old Nan for those stories – or at least I used to. I love the ones where they fight for fair maidens, like Lady Jeyne or Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and his sister Queen Naerys. My sister preferred the stories about giants and wildlings, and would call me stupid.”

Jon wanted to tell her she wasn’t stupid – that when he was a boy he would sometimes ask for stories about knights and chivalry – but he didn’t want to sound foolish. She already managed to make him feel tongue tied and awkward. He wondered what sort of stories she knew about wildlings. The fire was burning brightly before them but she suddenly shivered.

“Cold gal? Come an’ sit on my lap. I’ll warm yer,” Toregg laughed.

“Too good for the likes of us,” Tormund burped loudly and thumped his chest. “I’d run along before yer get stolen, little lady.”

She was gone without a word, balking like a deer from its predator. Jon watched her slip away back to her room and felt a surge of disappointment. Their exchange was almost nothing and yet even during the silences he liked to look at her. Her absence made the room darken somehow. Seeing that she’d left the water skin he passed it to Val in case she wanted it in the night and, pulling his hood up against the wind, left with his shoulders hunched.

That night he dreamt of her wide blue eyes and when morning came he cursed his idiocy. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Sansa still felt uneasy among her captors. She wouldn’t go so far as to say she hated them, for she grudgingly respected Val and Dalla for their strength and beauty and for their rare tokens of kindness, but she would never consider them allies or friends. When she thought about friends she thought about Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel, young girls she could laugh with and trust. She couldn’t trust these people with anything. She felt as uneasy in their presence as they did in hers. She knew most of them could speak her language but they preferred to speak in their outlandish tongue of old and so she was often lost amongst a sea of strange words. She knew that they often spoke about her too which only served to make her more miserable and homesick. Back in Winterfell she had been spoilt and indulged by all those who loved her and it felt horrible to be disliked...especially for something she couldn’t even help. Arya had sometimes scoffed at her girlish mannerisms but she knew deep down she loved her as much as the rest did.

Tempers hadn’t been improved by the recent visit from the men of the Night’s Watch. They’d been warned beforehand and so Sansa was forced to spend half the day hidden below the floorboards of Mance’s home while the Black Brother’s searched the village in vain. At the sound of heavy boots above her she tried to scream out, but one of Mance’s men had a tight grip over her mouth. Some of the huts had been ransacked in the search and, of course, the blame fell on her.

She settled into something of a routine. She would help Val or Dalla sweep the large home, wash blankets, cut up vegetables for their broth, and even patch up torn clothes. There were far more exciting things to do than that as women beyond the Wall were not only housewives, but Sansa refrained from doing anything she considered wildling. She might be stuck there for the foreseeable future but she would not become one of them, no matter how many sighs or glares she drew. She made her peace with these indoor chores but occasionally (as with the wood incident) she was sent outdoors to collect kindling, water, or anything else Dalla needed as she was too far along in her pregnancy to do much. She resented these outdoor trips, not just because of the freezing cold, but also because of the hostile looks she received from the wildlings. At first she tried to keep her chin up and back straight in the way her septa taught her but soon found herself shying away into her furs.

They had given her Dalla’s old clothes to wear and though she hated the musky smell she had to admit they were better for keeping out the cold than anything she owned at Winterfell. The thick coat was made from reindeer skin and the hood trimmed with grey wolf fur. She was also given calf skin boot liners and mittens made from the warmest of wools. Every morning she pulled them on and resented Mance for exposing her to the ridiculous cold. She sorely longed for Winterfell’s hot springs and piping hot walls. She had at first been surprised by the idea of wearing breeches, having only ever worn skirts before, but she could see the practicality of it. She’d slid them on curiously and felt foolish until Val told her to stop fussing.

On one of the rare days of sunlight Mance decided to leave the village with a handful of armed guards. Nobody told her where he was going – she was never privy to their clan secrets – but she had picked up enough to guess it was to meet other wildlings. She joined the others in saying goodbye and watched as the sleighs were piled up with furs and tradable goods. She felt a surge of excitement when she realised he would be going away for more than a day and began to think of ways she might escape. He obviously guessed her thoughts for he grinned as he stopped in front of her. The excitement of his upcoming journey had peeled away years from his face and he looked young and animated.

“It would break my heart to return and find you gone, fair lady,” he winked. “So I’ve asked my fellow louts to keep an eye on you. There’s nowhere to run. You’d be eaten up by one of those direwolves your family are so fond of.”

“How kind of you,” she murmured as sweetly as she could, though she rather spoiled the effect by glaring.

“Come now – don’t you have a smile for me?”

Sansa cringed away when he pressed a kiss to her cheek but he only chuckled and moved on. Disappointment filled her belly, as did fear. Mance had stolen her, yes, but it was he who cared for her and he was only one who treated her with anything more than contempt. She looked over at the men and spearwives he was leaving behind – the people he called louts – and hoped that they would honour Mance’s request. Would they keep her safe or would they try and steal her themselves? She trusted none of them.

Only the man with curly black hair glanced back at her. She supposed him to be around Robb’s age but his serious grey eyes seemed far older...and unlike her lively older brother he never seemed to smile or laugh. He was also the only one in the village who saw her as anything more than the enemy. He never sought her out but then he never made fun of her either. He was standing a little way off from the others, his hand resting awkwardly on the hilt of his short sword, and he looked away when she met his eyes.

When Mance was gone in a flurry of snow she asked Val about the wildling called Jon. “Why does he stand away from the others?”

“Made differently, that one. You don’t have to be scared of him, he’s never stolen a woman in his life...probably wouldn’t know what to do with one if he did. Fearsome with a sword, though.”

“I’m not scared of him,” Sansa replied quickly. She didn’t want to confide about how he’d helped her before in case he got into some sort of trouble with the others.

“He’s not without his admirers. See that girl over by the well?”

Sansa looked over and saw that they were not the only ones studying him. A girl with curly red hair was watching him greedily, a secretive grin plastered to her face. Sansa recognised her as the girl from the wood stock.

“Ygritte. She’s desperate for him to steal her.”

Sansa frowned, thinking about all the tales she’d heard from Dalla and Mance. She didn’t know much about wildling ideas but she knew enough from the warnings. The idea of being _stolen_ by a future spouse was positively barbaric in her eyes...especially when it could happen several times in a lifetime. Marriage was for the most part was unheard of beyond the Wall. “I thought it was bad luck to steal women from your own tribe...?”

“He’s not from this clan. He was stolen when he was a babe.”

“So he’s not a wildling?”

“He might be. Who knows what backwater he came from? Lots of other clans besides our own...” Val suddenly spotted Jarl and grinned. “Go and check on my sister, will you?” And without another word she was gone.

Sansa made her way back inside the smoky hall and found Dalla stretched out before the fire resting. The pregnant woman was ghostly pale and tired, and so Sansa found herself involuntarily crouching down beside her. Her own lady mother had birthed three children after Sansa and taught her from a young age to respect pregnant women. She was frankly appalled by the wildlings lack of care; they didn’t even name their children until they were two years old and expected pregnant women to work like everybody else. Even though they belonged to separate sides of the Wall they were still both women and Sansa had too good a heart to ignore her suffering. She tucked the blankets around her more firmly and tenderly stroked her hot forehead until Val came back and then she was sent outside for more kindling.

Even though she hated the snow she had to admit the hostile land beyond the Wall was beautiful. As she made her way uphill she could see the rest of the valley stretched out below; the bare dark trees, the muddy slopes, and the shining frozen lake right at the bottom. This barren wilderness was their home and though it was harsh and unforgiving it was very picturesque. She walked to the outskirts of the village, towards the wood stock, but paused at the sound of clashing steel. For a split second she could easily believe she was back home in the practise yard of Winterfell...her brothers whacking each other with their blunt swords and then laughing when they missed. But then surely her brothers wouldn’t swear in the language of old? The noise came from the dead forest and she approached cautiously, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Two people were stood in the middle of a clearing. Beside the sound of clashing swords all she could hear was their heavy panting. Sansa approached silently, her feet carefully avoiding any treacherous twigs, until she found a bare thick tree to hide behind. The pair were obviously practising as their movements were slow and precise, but they were not laughing or joking like her brothers were prone to do. Not even her father’s ward Theon looked this serious. As they circled each other she saw, with surprise, that it was Jon and the red haired girl Ygritte. It looked as though Jon was the teacher for he muttered quiet instructions beneath his breath.

Her first instinct was to hurry back. Ygritte obviously disliked her and Jon would not be pleased to see her sneaking about alone. However, she lingered and watched as they went through the motions of sword play. For the second time she was struck by just how familiar Jon looked...with his black hair, grey eyes, and long serious face he could easily pass for her father’s kin. His eyes, especially, reminded her so much of Arya.

Ygritte landed a lucky swing to his arm and he screwed up his face. In that second he looked so much like her little sister that she had to clap a hand over her mouth to stop from gasping.

“What was the bet again...two hits and I win yer golden bands? Stop yer scowlin’,” Ygritte grinned. “If yer give me a kiss I might let you off.”

“I’d rather have another go,” Jon replied, rubbing his arm.

“Would you?” Suddenly Ygritte was next to him and her hands disappeared somewhere beneath his furs. She was looking up at him, her eyes wide and beseeching. Sansa felt herself flush. “Would you really?”

Sansa had seen enough. She quickly darted back and in her panic forgot about the twigs and roots beneath her feet. She heard their startled hush but didn’t stop until she had reached the wood stock and once there she tried to control her flushed face into something resembling boredom. She tried to think about one of Maester Luwin’s droning lessons and how she’d always tried to sweetly placate him so she might skip out early. The illusion seemed to work; Ygritte took no notice of her as she stormed past and Jon only lingered for a moment. As soon as they were out of sight she pressed a hand to her lips but couldn’t help but giggle.

That night she helped a tawny haired women prepare dinner and listened as she sang a song in the wildling tongue. It was a strange language, full of short complicated sounds, but already Sansa had picked up on one or two words. It wasn’t really a language suited to songs, though, and so after eating she went back to her separate room and tried to get some sleep.

Her dreams that night were jagged and confusing. Once she had dreamt sweet dreams about gallant princes and faraway lands in the south where she was admired and praised for her beauty and kindness. For a spell she had even dreamt about Joffrey Lannister, the handsome heir to the Iron throne, who might’ve been her betrothed if her father had agreed to the Handship. That night she dreamt about Joffrey and how it might feel to be in his arms...but then, suddenly, his handsome face disappeared and she was looking up at Mance. She struggled in his grasp as he leant in to kiss her...but when he drew back his face was that of Jon’s.

Somebody shook her shoulder and she woke up at once. She could hear scuffling footsteps and moaning coming from next door.

“Go and get some water. Dalla’s sick,” Val explained shortly. Her usually pretty face was screwed up anxiously and so Sansa hurriedly pulled on her loathsome clothes.

Outside was bitterly cold and she breathed in sharply. It had to be very early in the morning as even the most brutish of wildlings were asleep or passed out from drink. The night’s sky was crisp and wild above her although there were a few scattered stars to light her way. She hurried to the well and quickly began to reel up the bucket.

But then she heard the definite crunch of a footstep behind her.

Alarmed, she spun around but there was no one to be seen.

“W-who’s there?” she called. “...I’m armed. I’m warning you...”

A shadow flickered across the ground behind her and she spun around just in time to see a great hulking figure emerge from the shadows. He was at least twice her height and he smelt of sweat and blood.

“Stay back!” she whispered. She had been bluffing before; her pockets were empty and she was utterly unarmed. Even if she had remembered to bring that awful staff she wouldn’t know what to do with it.

 _I’m being stolen_ , she realised with a sudden dread. _This man isn’t from this village...he’s from somewhere else..._

She stepped back as he lunged forward, his hands grabbing at her arms and waist. She shrieked and tried to bat him away but he was far too strong. She could hear him laughing and muttering strange dark words that filled her with fear. She managed to kick him right between the legs and for a moment his grip faltered and she squirmed away...but then he roughly grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder. _I don’t want to go_ , she thought bitterly, _not again. How will father ever find me?_ She hated this village but she didn’t fancy the idea of being pulled across the snowy wilderness again.

She beat her little fists against his back but it made no difference. They were moving away from the well now, through the dark pokey paths that led towards the edge of the village, but nobody was coming out to help her. No one cared if she was stolen.

Just then the man beneath her groaned and crumpled to the ground.

She whimpered as his body fell on top of her, pinning her to the frozen ground. His eyes sagged out of their sockets and she could smell his sour ragged breath against her cheek. But then somebody was pulling him off of her and her fingernails scratched at the ground as she dragged herself away. Behind her she could hear the muffled sounds of a struggle and quick panting, but only when silence fell did she dare to look back.

Only one man was left standing. He took a few breaths to steady himself and then offered her a hand. She took it shakily and he pulled her to her feet.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Oh thank you.”

She could see in the moonlight that he was scowling. Without a word he led her back towards Mance’s home, his hand clasped tightly around her own, and only when they were back did he speak.

“You shouldn’t be outside at this time of night,” Jon scolded, sheathing his sword. His usual black cloak was missing and his clothes looked crumpled and worn. “What were you thinking?”

“Val sent me outside for some water,” Sansa replied, abashed.

“You should have refused. That man was from a tribe _three days_ ride from here. Every wildling above the Wall is thinking about stealing you. They’re desperate to have you.”

“I’m sorry,” she tried but he didn’t seem to hear.

“That tribe is renown for its cruelty even by wildling standards. Nobody trades with them, Mance _hates_ them. I’ve heard stories that they eat their old and make cloaks with the skin of their enemies. You’d end up with several husbands before the night was even over.”

Sansa fell silent before his anger and she was surprised by the guilt rotting in her heart. She disliked the idea that it was her actions that had caused him so much effort and worry. She looked down at their clasped hands and realised that neither of them were wearing gloves, such was the urgency of their dressing. His hands were large and rough but his callused fingers were a testament to his vigorous swordplay. She found herself worrying one finger like it was a relic – it reminded her of her dear father’s hands. This was how the hands of heroes ought to feel.

Despite the seriousness of the situation her features softened. She was so eager to find somebody who she could trust that she was willing to trust him – a wildling, a ward of Mance Ryder himself. He had saved her, after all.

She pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek to reward his display of unlikely chivalry but instead of bowing over her hand like some knight in a tale, he simply stared and in his embarrassment dropped her hand.

Unperturbed, she smiled. “You’re not like a wildling, not really.”

She’d meant it as a compliment but to her surprise he frowned.

“Of course I am.”

“You aren’t. You’re kind and you’ve helped me several times now. Everyone else has been so cruel to me because of my family.”

Jon studied her for a moment and she didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered across her face. He seemed to be struggling for some reply but in the end he simply shook his head. “You haven’t got a clue about wildlings,” he muttered. “You’d better get inside before someone else tries to carry you off.”

Sansa saw the sense in that and so didn’t hesitate, but she was confused. Back home if she had spoken to anyone else as sweetly as that they would’ve instantly declared her as delightful as the Maiden reborn. She was used to people fawning over her and she’d expected no less from Jon the wildling, especially after kissing him. The fact that he’d seemed oblivious to her charms was disconcerting. As was his refusal to be called different. She had never once considered the fact that wildlings were proud to be wildlings...she thought them simply jealous that they were lumped in this wasteland.

Perhaps she wouldn’t ask him to help her home. Perhaps he was too loyal to Mance. She certainly didn’t want to make him scowl again.

The story of her almost abduction didn’t fail to catch the attention of the village. Jon had obviously complained to Val about her being outside at night and so Val, seeing sense, kept her inside as much as possible while all the time scolding her for her feebleness. She demanded that Sansa learn some way of defending herself and so Sansa found herself reluctantly tossing daggers about the practise yard with Ygritte chuckling unhelpfully whenever she missed (which she did a lot). She didn’t mind being stuck inside at all, preferring it to the cold outdoors, but it did mean that she was mocked even more by the wildlings. They laughed at her inability to do anything and saw her as something weak and foolish – like a blind kitten or a crippled hound. Even if she had the courage she couldn’t even defend herself now that she was shut away.

Ygritte sat nearby, grinning. “Not much point. You’ll be stolen soon enough...maybe you’ll be lucky an’ the cold’ll take you first.”

Sansa didn’t rise to the bait. Ygritte was constantly teasing her but she could usually block it out by thinking of something else. She gingerly wrapped the daggers back up in their cloth and silently passed them over. She turned to leave but Ygritte put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

“Jon won’t always be there. He’s going’ to steal me soon an’ I’ll keep him plenty occupied. You can be sure of that.”

“He can do better.”

The words tumbled out before she could stop them. Ygritte’s jaw dropped open and her cheeks blossomed red, but Sansa simply brushed away her hand like it was some irksome gnat. She would no doubt pay for that comment later but for now she took pleasure in her hollow victory...even though she knew her septa would appalled. She pushed passed the wildling girl and walked back to the chieftain hall with a small spring in her step. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short Catelyn POV.

 

Catelyn adored all of her children. Every time they won a duel or completed their needlework she would rejoice with them, cupping their bright faces and feeling a warm sense of happiness in her belly. The same went for their sorrows – their sniffles, their petty arguments (of which there were many), their trifle losses. All of these things that mattered so much to them in their short lives, that may seem to be inconsequential to others, filled her heart with an abundance of love. Her children were her pride and joy and she would make sure they grew into the very best of lords and ladies. Of course she would never praise them too much – she had seen that spoilt child of her sister’s and would never forgive herself if a child of her body should turn out so foul.

She had been watching Robb spar in the training ground when Septa Mordane approached. Robb was an able fighter but in her opinion he spent too much time teasing Theon than actually trying to best him. Most of the time they would collapse into fits of laughter and then race each other to the nearest tavern. She watched as he aimed a half-hearted blow to Theon’s chest – but it was deflected easily. Beside her sat a squirming Rickon, who was desperately trying to scamper over to his big brother.

“My lady, my apologies for the interruption, but I could use your help...” Septa Mordane was a woman of great dignity but it was easy to see that she was troubled about something.

Catelyn sighed. Her first thoughts turned to Arya and that she had once again run out of a dancing lesson. The youngest Stark girl was at loath to go to any of her lessons and Catelyn had even resorted to bribery in an attempt to make her learn how to stitch. She’d hoped that might’ve been the end of it. “Arya?”

“Oh no, no. It’s about Sansa...”

“Sansa?” Sansa was a good girl – she had no cause for worry about Sansa. She raised an eyebrow but was distracted by her youngest son’s sudden lunge for freedom. She pulled him back by the wrist. “Rickon, sit still. Robb has no interest in watching over you.”

“But I want to fight! I can fight. Mikken said so.”

“You’re too young to hold a sword, sweetling.”

“My lady – I cannot seem to find her anywhere and Maester Luwin informs me that Sansa was absent from her morning history lesson.”

Now _that_ was surprising. She knew that Sansa disliked her lessons with the maester, but she was hardly the type to venture outside the castle walls without permission. She knew that Ned would never allow it. Catelyn stood and fixed the old woman with a puzzled look. “Have you tried the Sept? She likes to look at the statues.” Sansa had always preferred Catelyn’s gods to her father’s; she said the Godswood scared her.

“Aye, of course. I’ve looked everywhere she likes to go and none of the servants have seen her. The last time anyone saw her was last night at the feast – and then you yourself put her to bed.”

“And she hasn’t been seen since?” Catelyn thought back to the previous evening. It had been late by the time she finally took the girls up to their rooms, far passed their regular bed times, but everyone had been having such a fine evening that it seemed a shame to spoil their fun. She’d tucked Sansa into her bed as usual and distinctly remembered the two guards keeping watch in the hall. She was about to suggest that they interrogate Jeyne Poole but before she could even open her mouth she was interrupted by the loud sound of bells.

Everybody stopped what they were doing. The ringing of bells in Winterfell was a rare enough sound: they rang to signify a birth, a death, or trouble. The last time they had rung had been at the birth of little Rickon. Catelyn felt a terrifying lurch in her stomach and something deep inside told her that it could only be about Sansa.

She ignored Robb’s confused shout and hurried as fast as she could to her husband. Eddard Stark was stood in the main hall, surrounded by his best men at arms, and he was issuing a number of loud commands. Quietly she strode to his side and the look he gave her was more distressing than anything he might’ve said.

He held out his hand and she saw that he was holding a short blunt knife. The hilt was made from something white that she couldn’t place.

“Mammoth bone,” he explained shortly.

Mammoth’s were said to only reside in the great unchartered wilderness beyond the Wall. It didn’t take her long to work out what had happened. She felt herself grow cold and for a second the world around her spun. Hands came forth to steady her but she waved them aside impatiently. “How? No wildling has set foot in Winterfell for years, and Sansa would never go beyond our walls.”

“So many people came to the feast last night,” Jory offered hesitantly. “One could’ve snuck in without our notice. All the lords and ladies brought so many servants...I can hardly tell one face from the other.”

“There was a singer,” someone else remembered. “He was watching Lady Sansa all evening. The one with the crimson cloak, my Lord.”

“Jory, you will take two dozen men and head west towards the Wolfswood. Harwin, tell Maester Luwin I want ravens sent to every castle and holdfast...White Harbour, the Dreadfort, Karhold, Deepwood Motte, Barrowtown...Anywhere there is a maester,” Ned finished grimly.

“Ned, a wildling would only head north,” Catelyn said firmly. “They mean to take her beyond the Wall.”

He nodded in agreement. “Aye, that’s my guessing. I want word sent to Castle Black to alert them of the situation... I will take the rest of our men and march north...”

There was a short silence after that. “ _Beyond_ the Wall, my lord?” someone questioned.

“Of course beyond the Wall,” Catelyn snapped, rounding on the poor man. “They have my _daughter_. The firstborn daughter of your liege lord. We will do everything possible to get her back...” She trailed off and looked up at her husband, and to her vast relief saw that he was in agreement.

“Just so. Ready the men!” he commanded and they set off to their assignments. Ned reached over and briefly held her hand before he too left for the stables and she felt a sudden rush of love for the man who had fathered her children. She had been foolish to question him.

She headed to Maester Luwin and oversaw the dispatch of ravens herself. She was sure to include a raven to King’s Landing as well. Even though her husband had missed it off the list she was sure that Ned’s oldest friend could be of some help, even if it was just adding his commands to theirs. When she was finished she found herself trailing along to Sansa’s bedchambers and to her surprise found her three youngest children already sitting on the bed. Arya was grim faced and silent while Bran was peering out of the window. Little Rickon sat beside his sister looking confused at the sudden upheaval.

“Mother!” Bran jumped to his feet, his blue eyes wide. “Is it true?”

“It’s true. Your father is setting off after them.”

“Mikken said that two of the guards are missing,” he offered anxiously. He was chewing on his bottom lip. “We think he must’ve snuck in here and then climbed out of the window. It’s not too much of a hard climb – I could do it easy.”

“Shut up, Bran,” Arya swatted him across the shoulder.

Catelyn sat down on the bed beside her and Rickon crawled impatiently onto her lap. She took both of their skinny hands. “That could be the way of it. It’s clear that someone has stolen your sister...I don’t know who exactly...but we will find them. I trust your father to bring her back.” _And put the kidnapper’s head on a spike_ , she added silently. The three of them were too young to realise the full extent of Sansa’s kidnapping but she wouldn’t burden them with it now.

“I called her a name before,” Arya confessed, her cheeks flushing. “I wish I hadn’t. I don’t hate her really.” The two sisters were as different as night and day and Catelyn had heard more than a fair share of squabbles...but she knew they loved each other really. She had seen them crawl into each other’s beds during the winter nights and heard their shared laughter as they played in the hot springs. Arya had always been a difficult girl but never a dishonest one – the look of fear on her face now was genuine. Bran was looking fearful too as like Sansa he was a truly sweet child who always tried to appease everyone else, but as a growing boy he could never admit to it so easily.

“You’ll see her again,” she replied, hoping she was right. “Pray to the old gods and the new that it will all be over soon.”

“Robb’s going with father. So’s Theon,” Bran told her.

She nodded and kissed the top of Rickon’s head. “They’ll bring her back to us.”

 _I hope_.

Before they left she lit candles to each the Mother, the Maiden, the Crone, and the Warrior. She prayed that the Mother would look after her poor daughter, she prayed to the Maiden that Sansa would find her inner Stark strength, she prayed that the Crone would light her husband’s way, and she prayed to the Warrior that he would lend Ned the strength to deal with the culprit rightly. She thought about the last time she had ventured to the Sept and how Sansa had been the only child to accompany her. Sansa loved to sit on the low bench at the back and listen as Catelyn sang the pious songs of her youth. One time Catelyn had permitted her to light a candle to the Maiden and afterwards the two of them had sat huddled together on the bench to watch the candles flickering light. Out of all her children Sansa was the most obliging, the one who always did as she was told. She was completely unaware of the dangers of the world; never truly believing in the Stark motto. Her sweetness was almost a blight.

Catelyn swore that if her gentle girl was hurt she would have vengeance. If she had been touched wrongly Catelyn would have his head.

She watched from the courtyard steps as the men rode out. Robb and Theon were indeed accompanying Ned north and Catelyn watched, with a mixture of fear and pride, as her oldest son mounted his horse. He looked so much older in his fur cloak with his iron shield strapped to his back. When they were younger he and Sansa could’ve almost been twins with their coppery light hair and bright blue eyes. They had been as close as twins too – always scurrying around the nursery and stealing sweet buns from the kitchens – and it was only the difference in their sex that had inevitably distanced them. She remembered the day as though it was yesterday; the day he was given a wooden practise sword and Sansa a needle and thread. They were no longer as close as they’d once been but she could tell from the stubborn set of his jaw that he would journey to the end of the world to bring his sister back.

Theon sat on a horse beside him and Catelyn knew that his intentions were far less honourable. He was excited for the adventure and Sansa’s well-being was secondary. She knew he cared for her – but he was neither Stark nor Tully and so his heart was elsewhere.

Finally her grim faced husband climbed up onto his great warhorse and the horns were blown to signal their departure. Catelyn chose this moment to exchange a swift word.

“Bring her back to me, Ned. Bring our girl home.”

Her husband was a man of few words, and those he spoke were almost always hard and serious. Except for now. “I won’t fail her. Not our Sansa.” She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and then he was away with a clattering of hooves. She kept watching until the last man was out of sight and then reluctantly drew back inside.

She had no doubt that the men would try their hardest to find Sansa. She was well loved within Winterfell and people naturally took to her. She was considerate, sweet, courteous, and beautiful...It was almost impossible to find a fault in her. She had a special kind of way that made whoever she was talking to feel like a knight in shining armour, even if it was just a kitchen boy baking her lemon cakes. Catelyn knew, of course, that Sansa could be unkind sometimes, especially after Jeyne Poole’s influence, but she had no doubt it was a childish phase that she would soon grow out of. One day she would be a great woman, more kind and beautiful than Catelyn ever was. That was her wish.

She kept a vigil in Sansa’s room, weaving posies together from lavender and different herbs. Two weeks dragged by without any word in which she grew almost frantic. She knew the dangers of the north as well as any other and the rumours that surrounded the land beyond the Wall. At night, when she managed to catch some sleep, she dreamt of white shadowy creatures and ice spiders. She thought about her beautiful little girl and how she could ever survive such hardships in a frozen barren wasteland. Her hope lived on, though it became clouded and torn with each passing day. Arya, Bran and Rickon kept themselves away but even from Sansa’s room she could hear Rickon’s wailing.

The first raven came four weeks after their departure, signed by the maester of the Night’s Watch, and when she finished reading it she tore it into little scraps and fed them to the fire.

_Lord Eddard Stark is injured. Ambushed by wildlings. Arrow in the back but not fatal. Have no choice but to come home. Some, with Lord Robb, will remain at Castle Black._

Catelyn had tried so hard to be strong, to cling onto hope that one day her daughter would be back in her arms, but after burning the letter she felt the tears finally come. She sobbed into Sansa’s pillow, letting out unladylike howls, as she clutched it close. She could still smell the faint scent of her daughter’s hair on the pillow and sheets. Sansa had always smelt so pretty and clean – like rosebuds and lemons. She had spent so many evenings carefully brushing out those long coppery locks while Sansa hummed along contently. She remembered the night following the King’s visit when Sansa had twisted around in her chair to plead with her, to beg that she be allowed to marry Prince Joffrey. She’d said that it was the only thing she’d ever wanted....If Catelyn could she would’ve eagerly spun back the time and forced Ned to take the Handship; that way Sansa would be safe and happy in King’s Landing where all her hopes and dreams could come true.

Unavoidably the questions came: What had happened to her sweet girl? Had she been used by some filthy scoundrel and left to perish in the cold? Had she been torn apart by ferocious wildlings? Sacrificed to their wild strange gods? The thought of her baby left alone in the cold was too much for her to bear.

When her husband finally returned he would see no one but Catelyn. He tried to apologise – the damn fool – for being shot but she knew he would’ve fought on if he had the strength. His honour would never have allowed him to simply give up. She had no doubt that he’d tried his hardest to bring their daughter back and so she couldn’t blame him. Robb wrote to them, telling them about a wildling captive who spoke of some lonely girl kissed-by fire living far up in the valley. He’d heard some raider brag about her at a clan meeting. Catelyn found that she couldn’t share in Robb’s hope. Silently and gently she tended to Ned’s wound and together – though neither of them admitted to it - they mourned the passing of their oldest beloved daughter.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Jon POV

 

The Free folk were good at adapting to whatever their fierce gods threw at them; be it death, battle, or bitter hunger. Following Sansa’s near abduction a storm arrived so vicious it choked the land in a harsh suffocating grip. Even the deepest of rivers froze over and it was impossible for anyone – hunters and children alike - to travel outside their villages. Mance was due back any day but the storm inevitably delayed his sleighs and so Jon and Val took over his responsibilities as leader. As it was too dangerous to venture outside the clan stayed locked in their homes and so fresh food and water became scarce. Mance had taken the best hunters with him but even if they’d been able to see well enough through the snow to shoot an arrow the catch would be frozen and thin – hardly enough for one mouth let alone a dozen. The food they already had was immediately salted down and stored in a communal area but within a day there were three attempted thefts by pinch-lipped spear wives who did not appreciate the idea of sharing. Val, scowling and severe, was particularly hard on them.

Jon wasn’t too concerned for himself. As a ward of Mance he usually ate alongside Dalla and her family in the chieftain hall and their provisions were better than most. Still, with Dalla heavy with child and the kneeler girl looking more and more pale he was generous in offering up his own extra rations, all the while blushing and stammering to his feet when Val raised a pointed eyebrow. He’d been helping Dalla slice up meat for a stew when the news finally reached them of the King Beyond the Wall’s return. Mance strode into the hall with half a dozen fighters, all cold and dishevelled and yearning for nourishment. Thankfully one of them had a deer carcass slung across his thick shoulders.

Despite the cold, Mance’s face was bright and animated as he greeted them. “It’s war,” he announced, cheerfully removing his hood and shaking the snow from his thick cloak. He sat down before the fire with a sigh and eagerly devoured his food, speaking between mouthfuls. “Negotiations went as smoothly as they could – only four arguments by my count. In three months time we’ll combine our forces and attack the Wall. Even the Thenn’s are in agreement although that prince of theirs is only interested in gold and loot. I promise you, by this time next year we’ll be feasting on Southeron wine with the sun on our backs.”

There were several cheers to that. “Did you get a good look at the Weeper, Pa?” An excited boy asked, hanging on his tired father’s arm. “Even the Crows know about the Weeper!”

“Aye. Eyes so blue they look like ice!”

Once Mance had finished eating he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and gestured for Jon to sit closer. His face turned serious. “The Weeper’s a strange bastard, make no mistake, but he brings with him three hundred spears. I’ve brought back a man named Orell. He’s a _warg_ \- one of those skin changer’s. Tormund wasn’t best pleased, you know how he mistrusts them, but he could be very useful in the upcoming battle. He’s been telling me some worrying stories, Jon. Stories that make my blood run cold even to think about. A White Walker has been spotted not far from the Fist...”

 _Impossible_ , was Jon’s first thought. White Walker’s belonged in stories and nightmares with Grumpkins and Snarks... Old crone’s used them to make disobedient children behave. “They haven’t been seen in over a thousand years,” Jon replied firmly. “He’s mistaken. He saw a wolf, or a giant maybe.”

He noticed the man Orell sitting across the room. His skinny body was hunched up over a bowl of stew but every now and then he looked up to check he was still alone. He had dark unfriendly eyes and hair that might’ve once been blonde though it was hard to see under the dirt and grime. It was common knowledge that warg’s weren’t like normal people – they were solitary and selfish folk who spent too much of their time in the minds of animals. Lots of wildlings shunned them on account of their mystic powers but it looked as though Mance was willing to trust him... as long as he was useful. At that moment he looked up and caught Jon’s eye, who in turn frowned and took a sip of his ale. He mistrusted the man already.

“Well whatever it is I don’t want it stumbling onto our land. I want you to train up some more lookouts. Have them watch our borders night and day.” Jon nodded mutely and Mance clapped his shoulder. “I’ll see to it that you’re well rewarded – there’s nothing more important than loyalty and I’ve heard all about your deeds in my absence. You’re a good man, Jon,” Mance added. He glanced around the room and then asked, “Now then. Where’s my little love?”

The Stark girl was pushed forwards and Mance’s face immediately lit up. He held out his hand and she took it hesitantly. She’d been resting in her portioned off room but even inside she wore her musty furs. “You’re going to be my flaming beacon, my love, uniting all the North for the first time in an Age. Now, don’t blush. Tell me – what have you been doing with yourself? Have you been good? You must’ve been – I can see clearly there’s not a bad bone in your body. I see you’ve been busy making my little hut pretty and I thank you for that kindness.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied in strained Old Tongue. Several people around them tittered but Mance simply hushed them. Jon felt himself smile.

“No need for that, sweet girl. Now, what have you been doing?”

“I’ve been helping Val and Dalla,” she replied quietly, reverting back to Westerosi. “Val tried to teach me how to throw a knife but I’m not very good at it.”

Mance laughed but not unkindly. “You weren’t made for such ugly things, child. You were made for songs and sweet things... You can tell Val that the next time she bothers you. You’re a treat for tired eyes. I’ve been bragging shamelessly about your beauty for the past few weeks until I was sure I was imagining it – but low and behold it’s all true. Isn’t she a sight, Jon?”

He could feel her gaze on his face and blushed, keeping his eyes on his food. “Of course.”

“Perhaps you might sing for me later? I would love to hear something sweet...”

“If it please you.”

She moved away and only then did he look back up.

His admiration for the Stark girl had not lessened but he was careful to never be alone with her. After the struggle she had again tried to thank him for his intervention but he always said it was his duty to help Mance. Her face would drop at that, and it would feel like a stab to the gut. He could not say exactly why he stayed away – she was always kind, bestowing upon him friendly smiles and eager words – but in her presence he felt uncomfortable and clumsy. He was a sullen man by birth and couldn’t give her the easy friendship she seemed to crave. He came to know her, though, at a distance. He knew that she wilted away from crude jokes and violence, preferring to watch Val train and clean her weapons than to actually practise herself like the other women. He knew that she longed to make everything around her beautiful by the way she weaved tapestries and rugs of every colour for Mance’s home and hung up cords of painted shells by the doors. He also knew that, when prodded enough, she had an unflinching core of steel that could’ve only been the result of years and years of unquestioned love. She was utterly sure of her position in her world beyond the Wall and he found himself yearning for the same confidence.

He also thought about the way she'd held his hand. How she'd kissed his cheek. He allowed himself that much. 

The next week he attempted to train up some of the older boys to guard their remote borders. When a boy reached the age of fourteen he was considered a man in charge of his own fate and this meant he could build a home and steal a wife – although many practised the latter as soon as they could. These boys were on the cusp of manhood and so they were impatient and big headed. Jon had to shout before they would listen and even then they barely paid attention, excited no doubt by the thought of wielding an axe or spear. By the time he eventually sent them off he was in a foul mood and, although not usually a drinker, he yearned for a large horn of ale. He was on his way home when he ran into Ygritte, who was carrying a crudely made spear in one hand and a fish in the other, obviously on her way back home too.

Ygritte had been his friend since childhood so when she all but ignored him he was rightly confused. They were both well wrapped up against the cold but beneath her hood he could see that she was hiding something; Ygritte was far too impatient and indulgent to keep secrets for long. Especially those she found funny.

“What are you smirking for?” he asked wearily.

She plucked at the fish for a moment and then looked up boldly. “The water’s startin’ to thaw at last. A fox dared to scamper over the surface and ended up falling right through. It can be a dangerous place. Especially for unsuspectin’ feet,” she said, her eyebrow rose in some silent challenge. “That kneeler girl won’t stand a chance.”

“What do you mean?” He narrowed his eyes. “What’s she got to do with anything?”

“She’s down by the lake now. _Playing_ like a child...”

That was all he needed to hear. He pushed passed Ygritte and ran as fast as he could down the valley hill, all the while cursing his heavy boots and cloak. He listened closely for shouts or splashes but all was silent and still. He imagined her strangled cries for help, her lily-white fingers clawing at the icy edge, her beautiful red hair dancing in the water like a flame. He imagined himself hauling her out and seeing the cold blue lips and the lifeless dead eyes. He felt his heart hammering against his flesh as he skidded down through the snow. “Sansa?” he bellowed.

The lake was without doubt a dangerous place. Occasionally a child would fall in and drown, but usually it was the cold that eventually finished them. Once they were soaking wet it took a miracle to get them truly warm again. “ _Sansa!_ ”

But when he reached the lake he found everything still and tranquil. The ice was indeed melting and large chunks had broken off but there were no disturbances...no ripples or waves on the surface. He halted in his tracks, confused, as his grey eyes scanned the area.

“Never seen you run so fast.”

He spun around and found Ygritte standing a few paces away, leaning on the spear.

“ _Sansa! Sansa, Sansa_!” she mocked. “So you’ve taken a fancy to _her_. You didn’t even notice me running after yer, did you?”

Jon had never felt so angry. He tried to move around her but she blocked his way.

“She can’t even do anything! She’s pathetic.”

“You don’t know her,” he snapped.

“An’ you know nothing, Jon. D’you think she’ll ever want yer? It’s embarrassing the way you moon over her like some stupid child. Everyone’s laughing about it. An’ yer can’t even get the courage to steal her,” she snorted. “You think she looks twice at you?”

“I’ve heard enough.”

“She’s not like you!” Ygritte finally shouted. “ _I am_. I can hunt and fight. I don’t need looking after like that fancy princess from tralaly land.”

Jon’s expression was one of stone. Perhaps if she had asked him under different circumstances he might’ve tried to spare her feelings – but her cruel prank had left him angry and harsh, “I’m not going to steal you, Ygritte. I won’t ever,” he added bluntly.

He expected a mountain of abuse, maybe even a slap across the face, but she simply spat on the ground and left without a word. Jon began to follow when he heard a sweet voice pipe up from behind him.

“Did you call for me?”

Sansa herself was stepping out from the trees, alive and well, with her little figure wrapped up against the fierce cold. Her hair was tied back away from her face and her cheeks and nose were red from the cold. Mance had deemed it safe enough for her to wander back outside alone but this was the furthest she ever ventured. In her arms lay half a dozen wilted blue roses.

He immediately prayed that she hadn’t witnessed his scene with Ygritte. “I thought...I thought you’d fallen in the lake,” he stuttered. When she didn’t respond he added lamely, “I mean, someone told me you were here....but I can see you’re fine. I shan’t disturb you.”

“Oh, please... Please don’t go. You could never disturb me.” She hurried beside him and put a hand on his arm. Her touch felt like fire even if it was through layers of wool and fur. If she truly wanted him to stay then she can’t have over-heard Ygritte’s accusations, he hoped. He tried to think of something clever to say, something witty and amusing like Mance did, but the words would not come. They never did.

“You’ve been picking flowers.”

She glanced down at the roses and smiled. “Yes. At home we call them Winter Roses because they never grow in the summer. My mother tries to grow them in the gardens but they only really bloom best in the wild. One time she caught me picking them and was so cross she forbade me from going back. Robb brought me a whole armful to stop me crying. My brother,” she added as an explanation.

He didn’t care a bit for flowers but he listened eagerly all the same. “You miss him?”

She nodded. “Robb’s ever so brave and funny, and he’ll be the Lord of Winterfell one day. He’s around your age...” she trailed off, apparently deep in thought, and then laughed nervously. “It’s odd to think...”

“What is?”

“I think you and Robb would be good friends. If things were different.”

He suddenly found himself whisked away Beyond the Wall; suddenly a son to a rich lord and living in a castle that he would one day inherit. He would have all the food and drink he could ever need, the very best Valyrian steel sword strapped to his side, and all the comforts his rank befitted. He could light fires all the year round and sleep under a dozen fur blankets. He would be taught from the very best wise men so that his words were eloquent and refined...and then one day he would be given a beautiful woman to marry and please. He tried to picture himself in this life, as a friend to Sansa’s brother, but couldn’t. He could never be anything but brooding and awkward.

 “So what have you been doing?”

“Training up some of the older boys. We need to make sure our borders are protected,” he said shortly. “Especially now with so many Free folk on the move.”

She knew better than to question him on the events ahead. Instead she smiled. “That can’t have been enjoyable. Ser Roderick, our Master of Arms, used to shout himself hoarse trying to get my brothers to listen. The best trick is to bribe them with something...I remember he used to take away their steel and make them train with wooden swords if they misbehaved.”

“Wooden swords are sometimes all they have up here,” he replied, shrugging. “What’s a Master of Arms?”

“Oh! Just a man who trains up young men with swords... and axes, and bows, and lances...everything really. I suppose you would be the Master of Arms here,” Sansa added thoughtfully.

“Just men?”

She shot him a good-natured look. “Just men.”

Jon cleared his throat. “We should go back, my lady. It’ll be twilight soon and it’s not safe after dark.” He wasn’t sure why he used her title, he had certainly never used it before, but he had a sudden urge to distance himself from her.

“You can call me Sansa, if you like. Just Sansa.”

He was about to reply when she suddenly put a hand to her mouth and gasped, the roses tumbling to the ground. He turned, following her gaze, and immediately his hand darted to his sword.

On the hillside facing them stood two wolves – only they were larger than any normal wolves had the right to be. The largest, ghost white with pale pink eyes and ears, was about the size of a small horse. They stood very still and somehow this was a more unsettling to Jon than if they’d charged forwards with their teeth barred. He’d seen vicious wolves before, gnawing on bones and scrapping, and they were easy enough to scare away with a sword... but there was something almost intelligent in the eyes of these wolves and their stillness unnerved him. If it had still been snowing he would’ve completely missed them.

The smaller of the two took a step towards them and whined, its large yellow eyes fixed on Sansa. Its white coat was flecked with grey and brown streaks.

“She’s beautiful...” Sansa whispered.

“Stay behind me,” Jon replied cautiously. The wolves were standing in between them and the village. “We can’t outrun them.” 

“I don’t think they mean us any harm.”

It was a peculiar comment to make but he didn’t disagree. He felt himself drawn to the wolves but couldn’t say why exactly. It was the same kind of instinctive pull he felt towards Sansa sometimes.

Sansa took a deep breath and stepped around him. He whispered her name but she took no notice and drew even closer to the beasts. The smaller wolf’s tail jerked up and it walked out to meet her. When Sansa put out her hand to stroke its fur it didn’t even flinch. “Direwolves,” she murmured in wonder. “They must be.”

Jon reached out and gently pulled Sansa back, keeping her firmly at his side. He believed that the wolves were no threat but that didn’t mean he was happy about the situation. Slowly, with his sword drawn, he led them around the beasts and they quickly made their way back up the hill. When they reached the top they looked back but the wolves had vanished.

“What do you think it means?” Sansa asked, her eyes wide.

“I’m not sure. Your symbol is a direwolf, isn’t it?”

“House sigil,” she corrected. “And yes.”

He gave her one of his rare smiles, his features feeling reluctant and stiff, but at once it transformed his face. Tormund and his sons were fond of poking fun at Jon’s “pretty face” during their spars but when he smiled, as quickly as a match, he looked instantly handsome and full of life. It never lasted long and Jon was completely unaware of it. If he had been he might’ve never smiled. “Then maybe some luck is coming your way at last.”

Sansa returned the smile and for a moment they simply stood side by side, grinning at one another like utter fools.

The direwolves remained on his mind all evening, but that night a tragedy struck the clan. In the early hours of the morning the inhabitants of Mance’s home were woken by the sounds of stifled cries. Dalla’s pregnancy had been long and hard; plagued by sickness and pain, and finally that night she bore a sickly looking son. There had been no time for celebration, however, because almost at once she began to whimper in pain. They tried every tonic they could think of but nothing managed to lessen her agony. The wise woman who had been summoned had no idea what to do and Val, clinging onto her sister’s white hand, cursed her to the depths of hell. When daybreak arrived Dalla let out a final choked groan and fell silent.

They all mourned her passing. Dalla had been a tremendously kind and sweet woman, but with only a small share of her sister’s strength and beauty. She had comforted and teased Jon more times than he could remember and been a solid member of his life since his childhood. She had been with Mance from the beginning and Jon couldn’t even imagine what his friend was feeling.

“What about the babe?” he asked. He sat on a low stool before the doors. Mance had refused to leave Dalla’s side and so the rest of them waited in the hall to give him some privacy.

There didn’t seem to be much hope for the little thing. Its head and body seemed too tiny and fragile to last. Without Dalla to nurse it it had to make do with the teat of a young mother within the village, but it was difficult and it cried most of the time. Val and Tormund had taken one look at it and sniffed in contempt.

Sansa was sat beside Jon, cradling the little babe in her arms. “What shall we call it?” she asked gently.

“We don’t name babes ‘till after two years,” Ygritte informed her sharply. “Everyone knows that.”

Jon watched as Sansa carefully dipped a clean rag into a basin of warm water and proceeded to wash the babe. She was watching it with a beautifully tender expression, as though he was the only thing in the world worth looking at. As she cleaned his wrinkled forehead the babe began to cry but instead of scolding it Sansa simply smiled and pulled a face. It should’ve been a sad time but Sansa seemed to take to the child in a way the other women could not. Perhaps south of the Wall they cared for sick babies the same as the strong. Perhaps she felt sympathetic to the little boy who would grow up without a mother.

Jon felt something within him stir. He wanted to move closer to her, to put his arms around her waist and watch as she tended to the child.

But then he heard it.

It happened on an unpleasantly cold night while he was sitting with the men before the fire. “It’s nights like this I miss the company of a good woman,” Mance complained. Four weeks had gone by since the passing of Dalla and by wildling standards it was normal to seek out a new wife. Jon knew that Mance missed his kind hearted wife, but it wasn’t the wildling way to mourn for more than a week. Their lives were so brief, so filled with danger, that death was too regular an occurrence.

“Take a new wife,” Tormund shrugged, picking at his teeth with the blunt edge of his knife. “You can finally fuck that Stark girl now. Fill her belly with little babes and you’ll be a real Bard,” he added with a snort. 

“She’s a child.”

“And a beauty. Folk all across the north want to steal her and here’s you sitting by her like a mother hen. Take her and be done with it. Your sons would be the grandchildren of old Eddard Stark.”

Jon had heard enough. Scowling, he went back to his own home and sat down on the low bed, twirling a short knife between his fingers. His home was large and well furnished, all the tokens won in combat and taken as his dues. A hut like this should’ve housed a proper family of six or more people, but instead it was left to him. People were always commenting on his single status. The men never said anything to his face, too aware of his skills with a blade, but sometimes he heard the women speak about him behind their hands. It was odd that a man of his age had never stolen himself a wife. Toregg and several of the other young men his age were all eager to steal themselves wives and were constantly boasting and looking out for any possible candidates. Jon sometimes accompanied them but was never disappointed in returning home alone.

He had never known his parents. Battle and the fierce cold orphaned countless of children this side of the Wall, but it was rare that one should be taken in by a clan leader himself. He’d seen a few orphans, poor things that had to work extra hard to be considered strong seeing as they had no kin to claim, and as a child he’d been taunted and teased. He knew he was lucky for Mance’s charity...but he also knew how hard to was to be alone. He’d never had a mother to care for him or a father to show him how to wield a sword, and so everything he was today had been his own doing.

Maybe that’s why he could understand Sansa’s anguish at being alone. If he had a family he would never want to leave them.

For the first time he seriously considered stealing Sansa. It would be only too easy to throw her over his shoulder and bring her back here; two outsiders making a new life together.

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. She would never forgive him and he would rather live alone for the rest of his life then give her cause to hate him.

Mance could easily reach out and take Sansa to wife without a second thought, while he, Jon, would have to watch from the shadows. He felt an incredible rush of envy. He thought about the easily intimate way Mance spoke to her, the way he had the right to take her hand and call her his little love or beauty. He hated it.

The very next morning he found them alone together. She was sitting beside him and looking up expectantly, oblivious to any of his plans or desires. Jon wanted to shout out and beg her to leave, to make some excuse and flee, but his loyalty to Mance silenced him. He considered leaving but found himself watching, half hidden within the threshold of the hall, as Mance took her hand.

“Do you still miss your home, lovely girl?”

“Of course I do.”

“Don’t you like it here even a little? You have not been mistreated. You sing so prettily and are such a help to Val and I. Dalla’s babe simply adores you....”

Sansa bit her lip and he thought he saw a flicker of something cross her face. Perhaps she was thinking about her almost abduction or the abuse she suffered daily from the clan. She was still mocked, still stared at, still tripped up. Surprisingly she muttered, “Sometimes...Sometimes I like it here.”

“Come walk with me outside. I’d like to ask you something.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the wonderful comments - I hope this chapter lives up to expectation. Next up will be a Mance chapter


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Mance POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about the late update. I've had this written out for two weeks but my laptop decided to break and I had to go into hospital for silly reasons. And none of these things are easy to do in the middle of China. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it :) It was really interesting to write for Mance but I promise lots of Sansa/Jon in the next one.

 

Dalla had been everything to him; a friend, a lover, and even a protector when he was lost in the snow without a hope. After deserting the Night’s Watch he’d taken that kindly woman to wife and for five whole years they’d lived in as comfortable a marriage as one could find Beyond the Wall. Her passing left a hole in his heart, one that he was sure would never be completely healed, and he often found himself reminiscing about their life together. Before his enslavement to the Night’s Watch he had known many women - some bought, others charmed with a cheap song – but couldn’t even recall a single face now. Weeks passed and he could still remember the gap in Dalla’s front teeth and the way she would throw her head back in laughter. He missed her honest guidance and council. She would be sorely missed in the upcoming months when it came to battle. The other members of the clan offered their condolences but they were merely empty words. The only other person to truly mourn was Val, who withdrew from her various lovers and remained tight-lipped.

And yet he had a son - an infant no bigger than his foot. He tried to search its face for some sign of Dalla or himself but this small squawking creature cried whenever he came too close. He knew he should love the child and be proud to call him son, but he could not forget that he was the reason behind Dalla’s death. He left the child in the care of others and only occasionally asked after his health. He was a sickly looking thing with a weak pair of lungs and nobody expected him to last long. Except for the Stark girl, that was. Night or day whenever the child howled she would come rushing to soothe it. She would oh so gently pick it up and hold it close to her chest, as though nothing in the world would give her greater pleasure. She would then look about her and frown, her expression clearly stating, “you should be ashamed of yourselves for ignoring him.” She would embrace it close and sing childish songs beneath her breath. Whenever it cried or made a mess she wouldn’t lose her patience but fix it with a bright smile. Some of the others jokingly referred to her as little mother but Mance thought she treated it more like a favoured sibling. He knew she had three younger siblings - he had seen the scruffy trio arguing and causing mischief at the feast - and so perhaps his babe reminded her of them.

Her kindly nature, while scorned by the rest of the village, tempted him. She was no Dalla but she had the same thoughtfulness and tender heart. He didn’t need a spearwife – in the upcoming months he would be surrounded by all sorts of women flinging spears and axes –  and the idea of coming home to her sweetness was an appealing one. She might not be a strategist or a warrior but she could care for him very well.

And with Sansa as his wife he could rally the Free Folk and together they would make an unforgettable force. The Wall would not be able to withstand that strength.

With all this in mind he paid the Stark girl a considerable amount of attention. He demanded her presence at every meal and bid her walk out alone with him every day. He questioned her on her favourite pursuits and desires...trying, impatiently, to court her almost. She responded with disappointingly short answers and never once asked him anything in return. She made her own feelings on the matter abundantly clear. She came to him one evening just as he was undressing for bed and turned a spectacular shade of pink at the sight of his naked flesh. He thought she would avert her eyes like the little lady she was but instead she clenched her fists and remained firm. She was obviously determined. “I’ve heard talk.”

Mance smiled, not at all abashed. “Ah.”

“About me...and you. It’s not true, is it? Swear to me it isn’t true.”

“Are you really so against the idea? You know I adore you, sweet girl. I would never let any harm come to you.”

She regarded him for a moment and in that space of time she looked far older than her thirteen years. He thought her face could’ve been carved from ice. Quietly, her voice trembling with emotion, she broke the silence. “If you steal me I will hate you forever. I’ve never tried to run away but if you do this terrible thing I will never stop running. If you take me by force I will smother you in your sleep. I just wanted you to know that before...before you decide on anything. Goodnight.” She turned on her heel and left without another word, leaving Mance speechless and more than a little impressed.

As soon as it was deemed safe enough to travel the clan began their preparations to join up with the rest of Mance’s army near the Frostfangs gorge. The majority of the clan would be travelling with Mance while the rest, mostly the old and very young, would stay behind until the Wall was destroyed. Everybody was certain of their victory, laughing excitedly and packing everything they might need for their new lives in the sunshine. Hundreds of sleighs were piled high with furs, provisions, and even the odd stolen feathered mattress. Mance was at the foremost of everything and pride swelled up in his gut to see his clan’s merry determination. He had promised them a new life away from the starvation and cold of the North...and Gods be damned if he did not provide it.

Within a week they were ready and he announced joyfully that it was time to leave.

“Pack your axes and bows, my friends. We make for Frostfangs to meet our new brothers – and sisters -at arms,” he shouted, tossing a wink to the spear wives. “Don’t be shy – they’re just as starving as you and rearing for a good fight! Then when we’ve gathered our full strength together we will march on the Wall itself! We’ll surprise those cockless Crows in the dead of night and give them a good hard thrashing. We’ll bring down that Wall, you have my word. Now – to your sleighs!” They cheered, screaming blessings and oaths to the wind. Mance stepped up to his own sleigh and with a mighty crack of his whip he flew forwards across the snow.

The wilderness of the north truly was beautiful. He had always thought so, even back when he was a lonely man of the Night’s Watch. His life before the Wall had been one of hardship and toil, shackled to the land by a great fat lordling who cared nothing for the wellbeing of others. He used to patrol along the Wall and look longingly out across the vast icy landscape. He used to think how wonderful it would be to grow wings and fly out across it, unrestricted and unchained to duty. Flying across it on the back of a sleigh, at the front of an army, seemed a good enough exchange. Although only thirty four years of age he suddenly felt like a young man again. The patched red cloak Dalla had sewn for him flew back in the wind and in his exhilaration he threw back his head and laughed.

He had come so far and he would go even further. His ambition was almost limitless.

They travelled for days and slept little. It was night when they finally arrived at the Frostfangs but fires were quickly re-lit and horns were blown to wake up the sleeping warriors. In the darkness it was impossible to see how many tents there were but he had the feeling of being surrounded by hundreds of keen eyed folk. Mance found himself hailed from all sides and he disembarked from his sleigh with all the dignity of a king. Men came forward to clap his shoulder and he greeted friend and stranger alike with the same broad grin. The crowd before him parted and he was ushered forward like a saviour. “Let them rest if they want,” he looked back at Tormund, signalling to their own tired clan who were still trailing in. “I want you, Toregg, Val, Jon, and Orell to come with me to the meeting hall. There’re still people to meet and recruit.”

“Aye. What of the Stark girl?”

Mance glanced over his shoulder at Sansa, who was sitting meekly on the edge of Val’s sleigh. She was covered from head to toe in bear furs but he only had to imagine her little pout of dismay. She had begged him to leave her behind but for practicality’s sake he had to bring her. He did agree that she could bring his son, though, as a comfort. “Let her rest. They can see her on the ‘morrow.”

“They” were the dangerous and treacherous assortment of lieutenants Mance had managed to recruit to his cause. They waited for him in the largest tent, crudely constructed in their haste but warm enough. The first man to greet him was the grey-eyed bald Magnar of Thenn, Styr, who clapped him on the shoulder. He was said to rule over his men with a tight fist and had the sharp blunt manner of all men who came from the faraway mountainous Thenn land. Next up was Harmar, known to everyone as Harmar the Dogshead, who had a bizarre penchant for butchering dogs to decorate her banners. She was a round short woman whose arms were thicker than Tormund’s but with a temper to match. Mance found her crudeness amusing and her capability in battle fearsome. She tipped her helmet to Mance almost mockingly but the smile she gave him was genuine. “Took yer’ time, Mance. Old’ Lord of Bones here was about to rush the Wall without yer’. Thought he could do it single handed, didn’t yer Bony?”

The Lord of Bones glowered. He was a small man with knobbly knees and a weak chin but his armour, made entirely out of bones, was renown across the north. Up until Mance’s intervention he and the Dogshead had been at war and there was still anger on both sides. Mance didn’t care much as long as they did their jobs. “I’m glad he waited then,” Mance interrupted smoothly. “I’d have missed all the fun.”

Last up was the Weeper. Nobody could own to liking the Weeper, not even his own clan could, but he was a fearsome member of Mance’s party. He was a vicious man whose macabre antics had already scorched the Night’s Watch. His pale blue eyes seemed almost bottomless as they surveyed Mance. Mance clasped his hand briefly but made no more effort to greet him. He did likewise.

Mance nodded, appeased, and gestured to his own men. “You’ve met Tormund the Horn blower, also known as the Husband of Bears, and his fine son Toregg. This beauty is Val, sister to my late wife, and the man beside her is my ward Jon. They’ll be captains in the upcoming battle.”

Harmar gave Val a hard look and addressed Mance. “Is she up to it?”

“Want to try me?” Val responded quickly, her hand touching the knife at her side. She glared at the Dogshead woman and then – almost simultaneously – they both grinned.

“He’s young,” the Lord of Bones was looking at Jon critically. “He looks green.”

Mance resisted the urge to remind them that they were all older than Mance himself and yet they were following him into battle. “Jon is the best swordsman in my part of the north and the smartest. You have my word on that.” Jon ducked his head in thanks but remained silent. He was watching the Lord of Bones with an unreadable expression although a faint frown stretched across his brow.

“Aye, we’ll see,” Synr replied. “Tomorrow you’ll see exactly what you’ve brought together, Mance. Over four thousand men an’ spearwives are here, every single one o’ them thirsting for blood. Plus a hundred mammoths and giants from the mountains. It’s a sight the north has never seen before.”

Mance saw the stunned expressions on Jon and Val’s faces and laughed. “This’ll be a merry dance, you wait and see.”

The next evening a feast was arranged in honour of Mance’s arrival. There were indeed more than four thousand warriors camped out in the Frostfangs gorge so only the lieutenants and their favourites were invited, which was still more than even Winterfell’s great halls could contain. They dined outside in a large clearing, surrounded by tall leafless trees and huge roaring bonfires that scaled ten feet high. Smoke and ash masked the air making it unusually hot and humid and the soot beneath their boots was dry. Benches and chairs were roughly nailed together and although the food was basic and plain, there was plenty enough ale to go around. Mance was offered the seat of honour but refused, saying he was no fine fat lord to sit above the rest, and sat among the men singing and toasting instead. It was too hot for cloaks so he was dressed in a simple fur lined tunic and breeches.

He was amusing the men at his bench with a rendition of the Bear and the Maiden Fair when a drunken Tormund elbowed him. “Heads up, Mance. She’s here.”

Mance looked around and couldn’t help but grin at the sight. Sansa had emerged in the clearing, trembling like a lamb under the sudden shower of catcalls and abuse. She was wearing a very modest woollen dress of dark green and, as he’d instructed, her shining chestnut hair was left down in all its glory. She might’ve looked like a child, except that the light of the fire made her dress cling to her slim body like a second skin and also hollowed out the circles of her cheekbones making her look far older. He should’ve been used to her beauty but even he was rendered speechless.

She cringed away from them all.

_Kneeler! Kneeler! Where’s your fine fancy castle now, lass? Get down on yer’ knees! Yer’ daddy ain’t here to protect you now! Kneel! Kneel!_

He rose and she made her way towards him. “Someone pull off that dress! I want to see the kneeler’s teats!” someone shouted and everybody laughed. “Let’s take it off her!”

Several people stood up, as though to really rip off her dress, but Mance put his hand up.

“Now, now, men! Lady Stark is my darling treasure. I won’t have her hurt,” he cried, smiling in jest. “Drink your ale and steal someone else’s prize.”

“Mance the Bard!” someone toasted and everybody joined in, cheering.

Mance smiled at Sansa, who looked close to fainting, and sat her down beside him. He introduced her to the men at his table, making sure each one was given their proper title to soothe their already prickly pride. Each one was hailed as a different hero of some sort.

“So you’re Eddard Stark’s whelp?” the Magnar of Thenn slammed a hand down on the table. “Well played, Mance - You’re a legend.”

“I heard Lord Stark got himself into a little trouble,” the Lord of Bones spat on the ground. “Shot right in his back, if rumours are true.”

Beside him Sansa stilled. “He’s dead?” she demanded.

The Lord of Bones grinned cruelly and Mance could see the remains of food lodged in between his teeth. “Dead or crippled. No man survives a wound like that.”

Mance expected Sansa to wilt before them but instead she stood up. Her hands were shaking. “Don’t you dare smile! My father is five times the man you are. He is the bravest, most honourable man in the north!” Her blue eyes were icy cold and her cheeks flushed with anger. There was a stunned silence.

“Hush now, my beauty,” Mance said gently. “It’ll take more than an arrow to finish off old Ned.”

Sansa flinched back but suddenly, under the guise of the firelight, Jon was at her side. She reached out for him almost instinctively and seemed soothed by his touch for she ceased trembling and her eyes grew a little warmer. Silently, he guided her back to her seat but his spare hand was wrapped tightly around the pummel of his sword. His jaw was set grimly. None of this was lost on the sharp eyed Mance.

Sansa remained silent for the rest of the evening, withstanding the many insults and appalling things they said about her family and home. Her entire lineage was insulted, from her parents to the very first Stark in Winterfell. She was labelled as useless, stupid, and weak. She sat through it all, her hands clasped on her lap and her face blank. Mance attempted to turn the conversation a number of times but the others seemed eager to break her stillness. It was almost like she had built up an invisible set of armour around her body and whatever they said simply bounced off.

She was called upon to dance for them – _“You dance for your kneeling lords, why not us?”_ She hesitated for a moment but saw that it was pointless to try and refuse the grabbing hands.

The Free Folk danced with their entire beings, their limbs stretched and poised, moving wherever the music took them. Drums were beat and fiddles were strummed and the dusty soot was kicked up in the air. There was no proper etiquette or necessary steps like in the southeron courts. Bodies were often pressed together, sweat exchanged in close embraces, when two dancers matched. Sometimes a woman would be carried off by her partner for some urgent tryst against a tree before the song was even over.

Amongst all of this Sansa Stark danced. If they thought to shame her with her inexperience or foreign dance steps they were poorly mistaken. Sansa was the very essence of elegance and had been taught the art of dancing since she was a babe. She moved untouched, separated from the other dancers by pure force of will. She was all grace, all beauty, all innocence. She was so unlike them in her movements and poise that she seemed unreal. The Maiden reborn, indeed. This, of course, made them want to touch her even more. Made _him_ want to touch her even more. Especially at the end when she panted; her small chest heaving against the bodice of her dress with strands of hair plastered to her face with sweat. Her hair was messy, thrown impatiently across one shoulder to keep out of the way, and in doing so she revealed a creamy white neck.

She was indisputably desirable.

What with one thing or another – and the many many toasts given in his honour - Mance found himself drinking more than usual. He waited until she was sat back down and then hauled himself to the middle of the clearing. He threw his arms out for silence and the merry drunken hooligans obliged him.

“My dear friends! You make a fellow proud to be your King Beyond the Wall. I hope you’ve drank your fill – I certainly have – because I want to announce something tremendously exciting!” he bellowed. “These nights are far too cold for a man to sleep alone and I admit I miss the touch of a good woman. I am to steal a new wife, friends, a wife who is beautiful and sweet.”

They all knew what he was about to say. He looked out at the many faces and saw amusement and delight. He would be a real Bard, just like in the stories, and they were honoured to stand beside him. He looked at Sansa and saw her shake her head in horror.

“I stole her from Winterfell to break her father’s heart...but instead she’s captured mine. It is my intention to marry Sansa Stark before the month is out!”

He saw her hurt and anguish, but it did little to dampen the surge of excitement he felt when the rest of the gathering screamed their approval.

_Mance the Bard! Mance the Bard! Mance the Bard! You lucky devil, you!_

“Imagine old Stark’s face when he sees his gal with your babe in her belly!” Harmar bellowed a laugh at the idea. “Stark’s wife’ll have a heart attack.”

That night was indeed a merry occasion. Everybody drank and danced until they collapsed, singing silly songs about their new queen Beyond-the Wall. Sansa herself vanished as soon as she could but Mance was too busy with well wishers to pay her heed tonight. Tomorrow morning he would go to her and explain.

“ _Say that again_!”

Heads turned and the music faltered. Standing, with a hand against the Lord of Bones’s neck, stood Jon. He looked to be well within his cups and angrier than Mance had ever seen. Jon wasn’t much of a drinker. He usually made excuses when it came to drinking, preferring to keep his head clear and focused. The only times he had succumbed to drink he’d fallen dead asleep. He looked incredibly awake now, though. He towered over the short Lord of Bones and appeared in his anger to be suddenly three times larger. “I said say that again!” he shouted, enraged. “Coward.”

The Lord of Bones spat on the ground. “Loosen your hold, boy. Those are some big words for a _ward_.”

Mance quickly strode over and put a hand on Jon’s tense shoulder. “Lad, calm yourself. You’ve had too much to drink.”

“I’ve had just enough.” He pushed the Lord of Bones back and strode out of the clearing, his face dark and angry.

Mance suddenly remembered his exchange with Sansa. _Interesting_ , he thought. _Jon’s got himself a little crush on my lady love. Poor boy._

The next morning, his head spinning and with a belly full of bile, Mance sought Sansa out. He was sure that eventually she would come to terms with his wishes and reminded himself that Beneath the Wall parents frequently married their children off without their say so. Why, the Lord Stark could’ve married Sansa off to any man to further his own strength. There were also times, a handful of times in fact, that she seemed to even like him. She herself had admitted that she felt safe around him. To the Free Folk this was more than enough reason to accept a man. He found himself clinging to these justifications like a drowning man.

Before he could conclude his search, however, word came that the kneeler girl had been found trying to run away.

Wrists bound she was brought before him, her head held high and defiance sparkling in her eyes. He didn’t notice this, though, and only stared at her head. Her beautiful chestnut hair, her crowning glory in fact, was gone. It had been brutally shorn so that it was no longer then his own. The uneven edges told him that she had done it to herself with a jagged blade. She saw him take it in and smiled knowingly. _If she thinks this will change my mind she’s a fool_ , he thought stubbornly. Yet he was bitterly disappointed all the same.

He requested that they be left alone.

“You tried to leave me,” Mance stated quietly, stopping just in front of her. “You know, I suppose, that you could’ve been killed or raped out there.” When she didn’t reply he went on, “My guard told me that a pack of wolves are following our progress. Would you be their meal?”

“They won’t hurt me.” It was a strange thing for her to say but he chose to ignore it. Instead he reached out and gently touched the uneven ends of her hair.

“I thought you would come round to the idea.”

“I told you I would run,” she said quietly. “And I will keep running.”

He flinched and drew away. “You should make your peace with it.”

“Never.”

 

* * *

 

 

Castle Black was a depressing and hollow place, devoid of any laughter or warmth. At least in the castle of Winterfell they had the hot springs piping water within the walls but even the largest of roaring fires couldn’t warm up Castle Black and the looming Wall. Robb was understandably impatient and keen to move on.

“My lord, the wildling is ready to talk.” The maester was half blind but noble enough. Robb had been shown every courtesy since his arrival and had been given the use of the Commanders own apartments while he was away scouting. He sat in the Commanders own seat and ordered the guards to show in their visitor.

The wildling stunk of sweat and foul meat. He was around Robb’s height but his layers of furs and shaggy dark hair made him appear far broader around the shoulders. He held himself tall too, as though not intimidated by the guards or swords, while his small beady eyes swept across the room almost lazily. His long beard was tucked into his belt and Robb could see fragments of food stored away within its depths.

“What is it you have to say to me?” Robb asked, swallowing his disgust. “Speak and you will be well rewarded. You have my word.”

“Might be that I have some important information about a certain stolen maiden,” the wildling smirked. “Have you lost a maid, lordship?”

Robb resisted the urge the clench his fists. He was tired, cold, and not in the mood for foolishness. “My sister Sansa was taken from Winterfell almost four months ago, as you know. Go on.”

“Aye, taken by Mance Rayder. Mance is a clever fellow, you must admit, sneaking in like that and stealing her away. Making himself out to be a big legend. He has a way with words, yer see, an’ it’s easy to fall under his spell. Not me, though. I don’t reckon on the idea of leaving my home...leaving the home of my forbearers...just for a bit of sunshine. He talks about things that crawl in the night – but I say shit to that. I’ll not risk my neck just so he can call himself a king,” he added sneeringly. “He’s called the clans together at the Frostfangs. And standing beside him is his prize – a beautiful lass with hair kissed by fire and eyes the colour of the sky. Would that be your sister, lad?”

Robb inclined his head. “How sure are you about this?” He’d heard plenty of stories about this so called King Beyond the Wall and none of them flattering. If this was the man who had stolen his sweet sister he would pay for it with his head. And Robb would be the one to pass the sentence.

“It’s no secret,” the wildling snorted. “The whole of the North knows – that’s _our_ north, not yours.”

Robb left the wretched wildling and called for Theon.

Theon was huddled beneath his cloak and damning the cold. “Is it her?” Theon had been his best friend since they were boys together and he trusted him completely. He was both his confidant and rival.

“It could be.”

He thought about his poor sister, friendless and destitute in the wilderness. Sansa wasn’t cut out for hardships or cruel words. She needed to be loved and spoilt by those she adored. Even when he was cross with her he could never ignore her for long. Years ago she had laughed at his too-big armour but, seeing his face fall, had swept into his arms and covered his cheeks with kisses. She swore he was her sworn knight and would one day be the very best of fighters. She even begged him to wear her favour in his next practise. He could imagine her now praying for a hero, some knight in shining armour from her songs...if she was still alive, that was. He thought about his sobbing mother...thought about his father’s last words to him...

“Find her,” he’d murmured feverishly as he was packed up for Winterfell. His face had been ashen grey. “I can’t lose her...Not again. Not like Lyanna.”

Robb shook his head and clapped Theon’s shoulder. “We’ll ride out at first light. Inform the commander.” 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Sansa POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope this isn't ooc in any way. I got a little lost in my imagination to take much notice...but yes, Sansa/Jon stuff coming up :) Hope you enjoy and thank you so much for the lovely comments and kudos.

 

The following morning Sansa sat on her lumpy bed of straw and regarded her poor shorn head with bewilderment. Her thoughts were so tangled that she couldn’t even remember chopping it off. All of a sudden it was just gone...the long curls falling, forgotten, to lie on the dirty floor. Then followed a rush of delicious spite that made her feel almost giddy and she’d sniggered.

She remembered Mance’s speech, watching in terror as he uttered those crucial words, and then a need to get as far away as she could. She had pushed through the drunken horde and ignored the catcalls and hissed remarks. She was mocked and called Lady Ryder, their Queen beyond the Wall. Afterwards there had been a sudden desperate leap for freedom; she had almost made it out of the camp when a pair of huge hands seized her around her waist and pulled her back. She didn’t know where she’d been running to...just anywhere other than Mance’s side. In all likelihood she would’ve succumbed to the cold and ended up on her knees in the snow. Mance had been right; in a horribly ironic way she was safer with his guards than alone. She felt like a trapped animal...a bird with clipped wings in a claustrophobic cage.

She ran her fingers through the short strands she had left and thought about her lady mother. She had always been proud of her hair and used to ask the serving maid to brush it out a hundred strokes every night before bed. Sometimes her mother would brush it herself and tell her stories all about Riverrun and her childhood. Out of all the Stark children it was she who looked the most like a Tully and she loved it when anyone compared her to her lady mother, who she considered the most beautiful woman in all the world. When she was very young her father used to pull her up onto his lap and kiss her head, calling her his summer time lass. Now her hair looked just like little Rickon’s.

She had searched long and hard for the shorn curls but they were nowhere to be found. She supposed someone had thrown them out. She didn’t know why she cared so much...it wasn’t as if she could magically sew them back on.

It hadn’t helped that Ygritte had sought her out only to snigger and call her names. “No one’ll want yer now,” she’d taunted, tossing her own head of bright red curls back. “Mance’ll only marry yer ‘cause of yer lady name.”

The tears slid out uselessly and she uttered a silent prayer to the Seven. She wasn’t _that_  upset about her hair, it would grow back in time, after all, but the overhanging threat of a marriage to Mance was something she couldn’t just _cut_  away. She felt so helpless and meek. She thought about her future as Mance’s wife...having to kiss him, to tend to him, to lie with him. He would come to her every night, his furs covered in blood and mud after battle, and she would be expected to tend to his wounds and pray that the Gods keep him safe. She would have to bear his children too, the children that he might ignore and neglect as he did already, and maybe she would even perish in childbirth like Dalla. She thought about his rough large hands and piercing grey eyes and let out a whimper. She had imagined her wedding night plenty of times before but Mance would not be gentle or loving. That was not the wildling way. He would take her as if he owned her without consideration, thinking of nothing except his selfish pleasure. She remembered the threat she’d made, of smothering him with a pillow if he went through with his plan, and in that moment she knew she could do it. Sansa was a good and godly girl like her mother but Catelyn Tully would run Mance through without a moment’s hesitation in her situation.

Just then the tent flap was pushed aside and she looked up, startled, expecting Mance himself to be striding in to punish her for those wicked thoughts. To her utter relief it was only Jon. He was bundled up in thick black travelling furs and wearing his customary scowl. Once again she was vaguely reminded of her sister Arya, who wore the exact same expression whenever Septa Mordane complained about her stitches. She felt a warm happy feeling blossom in the pit of her stomach at the mere sight of him.

But before she could greet him he held a finger to his lips and beckoned for her to follow. “Hurry. Put on your fox furs.”

Her heart leapt hopefully as she quickly obeyed his instructions. With shaking hands she pulled on Dalla’s old furs and stuffed her feet into her worn out boots. Was he finally stealing her? Once dressed she joined him outside the tent and he took her arm without a word.

Last night’s excitement had rendered the encampment unable to move. The toasters who had screamed and celebrated over Mance’s decision were now sleeping off horrible headaches. Even now as they passed unmarked tents she could hear the retching and groans as some poor louts tried to move. Jon led her through the camp and kept glancing around in case anyone might see them but there was little point in it. The only people they saw were two guards on look out duty but they turned away as soon as they saw Jon.

He led her to a sleigh already piled up with furs and she risked a few words.

“Are you stealing me, Jon?”

He gave her an almost bitter smile. “Just get on. Wrap yourself up tightly – the morning frost is still on the ground.”

She settled down amongst the furs as he stepped up behind her. Her heart was hammering against her chest at the thought of finally being free. Would he take her home to Winterfell or just to Castle Black? If he dropped her off at Castle Black she could find her uncle Benjen and he would escort her home personally. She felt excited as the dogs began to run and thought about her mother’s waiting arms.  

The crisp wilderness flashed passed as they skidded across the snow but the journey was short. Far too short for Castle Black and the Wall. They came to a halt only a mile away from the encampment and she looked around, puzzled. They were still in the woods and all she could see were tall bare trees stretching out for miles in all directions. The wind was bitterly cold and her new short hair did nothing to keep it from her neck and ears.

She realised, with sinking disappointment, that he wasn’t stealing her.

She sighed and got to her feet. “Where are we? Why have you brought me here?”

Jon stepped down from the sleigh and began settling down the dogs. “There’s a clearing nearby. I thought you might want some time after last night...”

He was more than right. Some time away from prying eyes and catty remarks was just what she wanted.

She saw then that his face looked ashen grey. “You look terrible. Are you ill?”

He ducked his head. “I drank far too much.”

Once the sleigh was attended to he pulled off the largest fur and threw it across his shoulder. Sansa followed him through the trees and carefully took in her surroundings. Despite her inner mood it was a beautiful morning. The sky was unusually bright and for once the sun actually threatened to shine through the murky grey clouds, sending random bursts of light flickering through the trees. The snow crunched beneath her feet and she touched the tree barks as she passed, marking them with a sharp stone she’d found. Jon walked with light careful steps and only when he reached the clearing did he glance back at her.

Sansa stopped mid-step. She looked around them and then  _beamed_.

Scattered across the ground were hundreds upon hundreds of blue flowers. The bushes grew almost obscenely and their long branches wound up and down the otherwise vacant trees, making it look even more exceptional. The burst of blue against the white snow was breathtaking. Sansa wanted to question Jon but he avoided her gaze, blushing, as he casually dropped the furs to the ground. “You can sit on this. If you want. The ground is too cold.”

“You remembered...but how did you find this place?” She walked further into the clearing and plucked a single proffered rose from the bushes. “It’s so...untouched. We must be the first people to step here.” Theirs were the first footprints to mar the snow.

“I used to explore a lot. The others didn’t have much time for it,” he explained quietly. “I love it here. In the north, I mean. There’s so much to look at and see. I can’t imagine anything so beautiful below the Wall.”

Once Sansa might’ve seen that as a challenge and insisted that south of the Wall was just as beautiful as above, but the stillness of the clearing and the pure beauty of their surroundings rendered her speechless. She held up the flower to her nose and was instantly taken back to the glass gardens of Winterfell.

“They bloom all year round here,” he offered.

Jon had seated himself at the very edge of the furs but when Sansa sat down he inched even further away. She didn’t notice, however, and settled down comfortably into the warmth. She took a deep breath, allowing the crisp air to fill her lungs, and then smiled at the thought of them being the only two people in the world. She could easily make her peace with that.

She twirled the rose between her finger and thumb and then absentmindedly sat it behind her ear.

“Why did you cut it?” Jon asked suddenly.

“I don’t know, to be honest. I just wanted to do something... _anything_... spiteful,” she ran her hand through it ruefully. “I used your dagger. You left it in the dining tent.”

“It’s very different.”

“Do you not like it?” she asked before she even realised why.

“It’s not for me to say.” He looked down at his hands. “But I don’t think it will deter Mance. He’s set on marrying you. He wants to be a real Bard, just like in the story-”

“-and use me to unite all the Free Folk of the north,” she interrupted indifferently. She’d heard it so many times that it had almost lost its impact. She used to be afraid of the wildlings and their strength, but seeing them now she had no doubt that they would lose. They lacked the discipline of her father’s men and even the raw necessities like steel and armour...even horses. She was in no way familiar with the ways of war but even she, ignorant as a child, could see that the wildlings were not up to scratch. Especially if King Robert summoned his own army. Up until now Sansa had never spoken about Mance’s plans to anyone but she felt safe with Jon. She could speak her mind here. “You can’t fight.”

“I must.”

“You’ll lose. All of you will lose. You’re not strong enough even with the clans combined. Even if you did manage to somehow make it to the other side of the Wall you’d be faced with thousands upon thousands of knights, armed with real steel swords and shields. You’re a wonderful fighter, Jon, I’ve seen you practise...but you can’t hope to beat Ser Barristan the Bold or Ser Jaime Lannister,” she added softly. “And you know that, don’t you? You don’t really believe in this.”

“I will fight at Mance’s side,” he replied gravely. “I’ve given my word.”

“King Robert won’t just let you march south...You’ll have to fight him too and all of the great lords: The Lannisters, the Tully’s, the Tyrell’s...You’ll have to fight the Red Viper, the Blackfish, and the Knight of Flowers,” she added, scrambling to think of all the names she could remember from her lessons.

“If Mance commands it.”

She wanted to shake him by the shoulders. For a wildling he was filled with an unusual amount of honour.

In the end she muttered a curse, using a phrase she’d heard Val use. “ _Téigh go dtí an diabhail!_ *”

To her surprise Jon burst out laughing. It was the first time she’d heard him laugh so loudly and couldn’t help but giggle in response, even though she was trying very hard to be serious. She asked him what the words meant but he only shook his head, obviously amused.

It wasn’t exactly the way she wanted the conversation to progress but it helped to ease the tension. Jon got up to pick a handful of berries from a nearby bush and when he sat back down he was only a few inches away from her. He passed her a couple and she took them gladly. They were small and looked black but on closer inspection she could see hints of red beneath the surface. She was no expert on poisons – Arya was, she could list five of the deadliest poisons from the top of her head – but Jon seemed to know what to look for and, even though he was wildling, she trusted him.

The berries were sharp and delicious. She ate two and closed her eyes, savouring the almost sweet taste on her tongue. The last time she had eaten berries she had been ten years old and completely naive to the world around her. Berries were a treat for the young and the poor, the people who were not privileged or appreciative enough of fine deserts. She thought about Winterfell’s warm bustling kitchens and how she and Jeyne Poole used to pinch treats.

When she opened her eyes she found Jon watching her with an unreadable expression. There was a smudge of red juice on his bottom lip.

For the first time in months she felt safe. She felt  _wanted_. It was nice to be with someone who didn’t resent her presence or treat her like an enemy.

So it made perfect sense to lean forward and press her lips against his. When their mouths touched she felt a bizarre ache deep within her chest suddenly satisfied and every part of her body seemed to spur her on, urging that  _this is just right_. Jon’s lips moved hesitantly but she sighed when she felt him kiss her back.

It was a child’s kiss; chaste and sweet with no expectations. Except that it made her heart sore.

Predictably Jon drew away first. “I...We shouldn’t have done that.”

“Didn’t you want to?” she asked breathlessly.

“More than anything,” he replied shyly and they both blushed. “But...Mance...”

Sansa put her hand across his mouth to silence him. His eyes were so grey that they looked black and she found it hard to look away. “Don’t say his name here. Just for now he doesn’t exist.”

It was a pretend they were both eager to believe. They spent hours in the clearing without another mention of the King Beyond the Wall or the any of the other wildlings. They spoke about their lives at length...or rather, Sansa told him all about her life back in Winterfell while he listened. She asked him about his parents but seeing the lost look in his eyes questioned him on the games he played instead. Sansa realised that their lives couldn’t have been more different and felt sorry for the poor lonely boy he described.

“So you have no idea who they were?” she asked gently, taking hold of his bare hand. He had been wearing gloves but she found the material barrier tiresome and so demanded he take them off. Sansa traced his hand with her own, feeling the coarse skin of his finger tips and the smooth skin on his wrist. She could tell he was uncomfortable by such closeness but he never asked her to stop.

“Only from what others have said. I know they came from far away...and that my- my mother,” he cleared his throat. “I’ve heard she was a fool.”

She felt insulted on his part. “Who said that?”

“I heard Dalla and Mance talking once. Dalla said she was a  _poor fool_.”

“That could mean anything,” Sansa said confidently. “Theon, my father’s ward, used to call Jeyne Poole a fool all the time. He calls lots of girls fools.”

“Even you?” Jon asked, a smile tugging his lips.

“Not Theon, but Arya did. She thinks anything except swords and mud is silly.”

She suddenly remembered her father’s sister Lyanna, the aunt who had been abducted by the crown prince Rheagar. She had died in childbirth before Sansa was even born but she still haunted the halls of Winterfell. Her father rarely mentioned her but when he did his eyes would darken and he would look truly heartbroken. Sansa had never paid her much attention before, but during King Robert’s wasted visit she had overheard the Queen talk about her in hushed tones. She had named Lyanna as a fool.

“I suppose it’s not such a bad thing...if you yourself have been called one,” he sighed but squeezed her hand in gratitude.

Soon it became too cold to remain on the ground and so they walked around the clearing, stamping life into their worn feet. It wasn’t until darkness threatened to fall that Jon suggested they go back to the encampment.

“Do we have to?” she asked quietly. The stars were beginning to come out and she wanted nothing more than to peer up at them all night. It was hard to believe that this was the same sky that stretched above Winterfell.

Jon didn’t reply but then she hadn’t really expected him to. She sunk back down onto the sleigh with only a glimmer of disappointment; the rest of her thoughts were preoccupied by her very first kiss. Neither of them said anything during the journey back but it obvious something had shifted between them. Jon wrapped the furs around her himself and once she even caught the hint of a smile when he thought she wasn’t looking.

It was pitch black by the time they arrived back but nobody paid them the slightest attention. Jon accompanied her back to her tent and then took his leave, giving her only a quick nod in goodbye. Sansa didn’t mind. She practically floated into the tent and sat on her bed, humming nonsensical songs beneath her breath. Before long, however, reality caught up with her and dashed her moment of delight; Toregg, Tormund’s son, arrived unannounced and told her that Mance wished to see her in his tent right away. She swallowed the bitterness and soon enough found herself standing in Mance’s far more elaborately furnished tent. When she arrived Mance was hunched up over a broad table, etching marks on a worn out map, but he straightened when he saw her.

“Sit down, Sansa,” he bid, gesturing to the bed. He dismissed the guards and poured them both a glass of mulled cider. “And where have you been, lady? Nobody has seen you all day...I thought, perhaps, you had succeeded in running away,” he asked curiously.

“I was with Jon.” She didn’t want to tell him about the clearing. It had already become something precious to her and she would be damned before she shared it with Mance. He would only ruin it. “Why have you summoned me?” she asked.

“I’d like to discuss a few things with you. Please, sit,” he gestured once again and Sansa warily sat down on the edge of the bed. He passed her a cup and she took a quick sip; the cider was hot which was a blessing but she had never liked cloves. “Namely our upcoming nuptials.”

 _He is so_   _blunt_. “So you will do this thing without my consent?”

“I’d rather you were willing.”

“Never.” She put aside the drink.

To her dismay Mance sat down beside her and he purposefully put a hand on her leg. She instantly felt her body tense. She had changed out of her travelling furs and was wearing a simple dress of green wool with a modestly white chemise beneath. She suddenly longed for her previous attire. “Have you ever been kissed, my love?”

She could smell sour cider on his breath which meant he had already been drinking before she arrived. His face was flushed and his usually sharp eyes were somewhat dazed.

“Yes.”

“By some clumsy stable lad, I wager. Never by a man.”

His voice was soft as he gently took hold of her chin, angling it up to meet his own. For the second time that day she was kissed but  _these_  lips were chapped and hot. Sansa kept her mouth clenched shut and when he finally drew away he sighed.

“If you would only try...I can make you feel good, Sansa. I can make you enjoy it. Desire it even...”

“No, thank you,” she whispered.

He kissed her again but this time he forced her mouth open. She tried to stay completely still, as though made of stone, but her body trembled when his lips moved down from her mouth and traced the white curve of her neck.

_Think of something else. Become porcelain...ivory...steel._

He pushed her back so that she was lying down and slowly untied the laces of her bodice. His eyes roamed across her face and took in her wide eyes, her flushed cheeks, her swollen lips, and she recognised the look of hunger in his gaze. He impatiently pushed aside her chemise and then – suddenly – she was bare for him. Mance’s breath became haggard as he touched her, tracing her soft skin with a kind of drunken admiration. Sansa felt branded as though she had been marked by a flame but she sat through it all without making so much as a whimper.

Finally he pulled away and after carefully tying her dress back up he hoarsely dismissed her.

She rushed back to her own tent and asked the spearwife guarding her for a bowl of scalding hot water. Only a week ago the spearwife might’ve ignored her but Sansa was soon to be their Queen Beyond the Wall and so brought forth the water with only a small grumble. Sansa quickly tore off her dress and washed, scrubbing the skin on her chest with particular ardour.

What did this mean?

She was terrified, but most of all because she hadn’t fought back. Why had she just let him do those things? She had sworn to smother him on their wedding night...but when the time came would she be too frightened? As she washed she thought about Jon’s sweet kiss in the clearing. It had been so natural and impulsive. The way kisses ought to be, she decided.

She waited until the camp was asleep before throwing an old cloak over her nightdress and scampering over to Jon’s tent. She knew his tent was pitched up somewhere close to Mance’s but had obviously never visited before. She found what she hoped was the right one and silently ducked under the tent flap. She was met with complete darkness.

“Jon?” she whispered.

Somewhere his voice croaked out, “Sansa? What’s wrong?” She heard a rustle as he groggily sat up and approached with caution. Her eyes scanned the floor for anything to trip her up but it was no use.

“I need your help.”

“What’s the matter?” He sounded dazed and she wondered if he was still half asleep. She finally found the bed but made no motion to sit down –  _that_  would really alarm him. Instead she stood at the foot and tried to make him out. She took a deep breath.

“I need...I need you to steal me.” This was met with a silence that dragged on for a few moments. “Please.”

“Let me light a candle - I can’t even see you. What are you thinking of?” She heard him look for something and then suddenly a flash of light lit up the tent. She winced away from the sudden brightness but eventually her eyesight adjusted. Jon was sat up in bed, the covers pooling around his slim waist, and he was wearing a thin white shirt and breeches. “You’re shivering.”

“Jon, please just listen to me,” she begged. “If you don’t steal me he will marry me. I will be chained to him for the rest of my life...and I don’t think I can kill him, no matter what I swore. I will die up here from the cold or below the Wall on a bloody battlefield...Perhaps even in childbirth, birthing him children he won’t even look at. Do you really want that life for me?”

Jon flinched. “No. Of course I don’t.”

“Then steal me. Take me back home.”

Jon slowly got to his feet and he was frowning. “I can’t. It’s not that simple, Sansa. Mance is like a father to me...I owe him my life. I could never betray him.”

She felt her heart sink. “Help me then. Just help me to escape...I could drive a sleigh if I really tried. You’d just have to tell me where to go...”

He shook his head and his messy black curls darted about his face. “You would never make it. Don’t ask this of me - I cannot help you.”

She backed from him, suddenly furious. “I thought...I thought you liked me. You  _kissed_  me,” she added accusingly. “I was wrong, wasn’t I? I’m just something new and pretty to look at. Like a god damned doll!”

For the second night in a row she cried herself to sleep.

_She was running through the woods, the sky a dark blanket of stars above her. The snow crunched beneath her paws as she chased down the frightened deer. Even with the distance between them she could hear its terrified heartbeat and smell its rough muddy hide. She wanted nothing more than to sink her teeth into its tender flesh and rip it open. It had been days since her last meal and she was ravenous._

_Beside her, streaming like a blur through the tree’s, was the rest of her pack. She was quicker than him but he was stronger and they both knew that he would be the one to deliver the killing blow. He always was. She caught the deer by the edge of the woods and held back its head while the white wolf opened its throat._

_The heavens were bright above her as she feasted. Beside her the white wolf approached and she moved aside, letting him join in on the feast. The two of them were a pack and they shared everything; once there had been more of them, brothers and sisters, but they were gone now...only the two of them remained. Later she sat away from the carcass and let her eyelids close...she had no qualms about letting down her guard...for he would be watching._

Sansa was awoken by the sound of shouting. Her face was covered in sweat and it took her a while before she could make any sense of what was going on. Against the side of her tent she could see what looked like dancing silhouettes...only they weren’t dancing...they were fighting, and they were lit up by the flickering glow of fire. She scrambled to her feet and shrieked when a splatter of blood hit the tent wall.

An ambush. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Go to the devil. Thanks ellenkc for the translation help :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon steals Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long wait. I had to type this out using Open Office and it was a nightmare. I hope you enjoy it because it was exciting to write...after this there will be one last chapter. Also - fight scenes are not my strong point.

 

 

_He could taste the hot blood on his lips. With a deliberate flick of his paw he ripped open the throat so that its tender flesh was laid bare and waiting. His mate, panting with agitation, dipped her head and began to feast, the fur around her mouth staining crimson. The full moon was bright above them and in its light the two of them gorged themselves on their prize._

Jon awoke with a start. His scattered dreams had been blunt and confusing, stopping and starting with no real sense or direction. He could remember flashes of blood against the pure white snow and his heart racing as he ran through the trees. And then Sansa would appear, her lips ruby red, pleading with him. “ _Promise me, Jon_.” His mind felt cloudy but otherwise every nerve of his body was alert and tense. He could hear distant shouting and the walls of his tent, lit up in the soft moonlight, became the stage for hundreds of dancing shadows. He sat up in his small bed and ran a hand across his sweaty forehead, willing himself to wake up completely.

It wasn't until one of the dancing shadows shrieked and collapsed that he realised what was going on. _An ambush_. He leapt from his bed and hurriedly pulled on his old worn clothes. His longsword lay beside his bed, freshly oiled after a long galling night of thinking, and he unsheathed it with a hiss. He pushed back the tent flap impatiently and the sight that met him stunned him into silence. The camp was alight. Fire flickered from the furthest tents but it was spreading fast towards him and in its way stood hundreds of fighting men and spear wives. The Free Folk were not particularly bothered by combat etiquette or rules and fought each other like wild packs of dogs, shrieking and cursing in the tongue of old. He saw flashes of short dirks, heavy axes and blunt spears. A woman in front of him screamed with rage when a man managed to pin her down but then bit savagely into his neck.

It was impossible to tell friend from foe. In the darkness everybody looked the same in their worn patched clothes and miserable expressions. By the time Jon dragged the man off he was already dead from the loss of the blood. The spear wife simply sneered at him, her teeth covered in blood, and shot off to pick her next fight. Another woman was being dragged off by three hooded men and screaming for help so Jon began in that direction. Foes fell before him easily, their weapons rusty where his was sharp, but he gained his fair share of scrapes. He received an especially nasty cut on his arm that hurt like the devil.

A yell made him look around and suddenly he was filled with a red hot rage. He turned just in time to see Ygritte fall to her knees, her red hair blazing in the firelight. He had never loved Ygritte but he'd grown up with her. She had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember and was a member of his clan. He watched as her usually laughing mouth sagged open in surprise, as though some long winded joke had been suddenly interrupted. Her killer tugged his sword out of her gut and she fell down face first into the snow; dead.

Jon rushed at the man and swung. The man was dressed more carefully than the others in a rich glossy fur cloak and good boots. His well maintained armour, polished without a single dent, was better than anything Jon had ever seen before. At his throat, clasping his cloak together, was a silver broach that could have easily fed a family above the Wall for months. He wore his helm low over his face but Jon could sense that he was still young. He fought with the same enthusiasm and valour that the knights in the stories did, and to Jon's chagrin he fought very well; he had obviously been well taught with a sword. _This is no usual clan ambush_ , he realised.

Jon landed a good swing to his side, knocking him down onto one knee, but he was instantly back up with a blow of his own. Their long swords swung and clashed as though they were performing a dance, but all around them came the screams and shouts that reminded them otherwise. Their skill with a sword seemed evenly matched but Jon's anger made him impatient; with a shout he knocked aside a swipe and managed to elbow him in the face. The man fell back, stunned, and as he did so his bronze helm fell to the ground.

Two piercing blue eyes glared up at him.

 _Her eyes_.

Jon almost dropped his sword in surprise.

He recalled her saying something about a brother. A brother who was strong and kind, who adored and loved her. Who brought her blue roses when she was sad. _“_ _Robb’s ever so brave and funny, and he’ll be the Lord of Winterfell one day. He’s around your age...”_ As he looked harder he saw that the lordling was still half a boy; the auburn hair that grew along his jaw was as fine as his own. Above that was the familiar straight nose, dust of freckles, and mop of chestnut curls. _It's him_ , he realised with an ache, _Robb Stark of Winterfell_. He noticed now that the expensive pin he wore at his neck was shaped like a silver direwolf.

Jon was appalled but, even more curiously, the lordling seemed just as taken back. He'd gotten back up to his feet but his sword arm remained lowered. He stared at Jon for a second and then demanded, “How...who are you are?” His southern tone was rich and spoilt like Sansa's; he was obviously used to getting his way. “Speak up!”

Before either of them could speak or move a giant of a man ran up to them and pulled his liege lord away, shouting that the fire was edging too close. The lordling looked like he wanted to argue but one quick glance at the flames was enough to make him consent. He gave Jon one last curious look before he was impatiently dragged away.

Jon's own confusion was overshadowed by a huge sense of relief. He didn't even want to think of what might've happened had the two not been interrupted.

 _Where is Sansa?_ After that confrontation with her brother he was sure that this was no regular ambush of rival clans. He was obviously here looking for his sister and had paid these Free Folk to help him. The fire was indeed spreading, helped by the wind and fresh torches. He saw in the distance several men on horseback riding down Free Folk like they were vermin. _Crows._ Some were putting new tents to the torch. Surely she was away from the fighting? Mance or the little lordling would have spirited her away to safety by now. Still, Jon couldn't take that chance. The fighting and fire weren't the only dangers on a battlefield. Sure enough some men, untrained or new to the ways of war, were looting and dragging off women, pulling at their torn clothes and hair. Although some were spearwives they still had no way of protecting themselves when parted from their steel tipped husbands.

He thought about one of those men dragging Sansa off and knew, then, that he had to get her away. He should have stolen her when she asked him to.

No longer caring about the battle he rushed towards Sansa's tent only to find it long empty. It had already been ransacked and her belongings were scattered across tent without a care, though he noticed that her warm cloak was missing. Mance's tent was right next door but when he drew back the tent flap he saw a sight that was just as frightening as the one behind him. He paused, afraid to speak, and so watched from the threshold as the troubling scene unfolded.

Mance, still dressed for sleep, was sprawled in his great oaken seat, clutching the bundle that was his newborn son to his chest. Beneath the bundle his tunic was stained crimson red. His face was stark white and Jon could see by the way his shoulders shook that it was difficult for him to find breath. He was staring down at his son with a crooked smile playing at his lips. Sansa was kneeling before him, her hands covering her mouth in horror. She was dressed in only a white night robe with her woollen cloak thrown across for modesty. With her shorn head and trembling shoulders she looked like a little girl.

Their voices were so low and so soft that it seemed a different world to the one outside.

“Sansa...” Mance held out a hand and in that moment he looked older than Jon had ever seen him. “Please, my little love...”

Sansa took hold of his hand. When she looked up he could see tears gleaming on her cheeks.

“I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for everything,” Mance murmured quietly. “You didn't deserve this. And my son...” he glanced down at his son. “He's so little, Sansa. Look at his hands...his feet. He's so little and defenceless.”

“He'll grow,” Sansa whispered, her eyes bright and shining. “One day he'll be as big and strong as a knight.”

Mance tried to laugh but instead spluttered into a coughing fit. His spittle was blood. “So sweet,” he rasped. “You can't leave him. My son will soon be an orphan with all the horrors beyond the Wall to contend with. Take him with you, I beg you. Do this one kindness for me...Take my son and raise him. Teach him to be good and honourable. Teach him to be sweet...like you. We've been betrayed, my darling, this is the end of the King Beyond the Wall. Name him Mance...”

His arms shook as he held out his first born. Sansa took him gently, adjusted his blanket, and held him to her breast.

“Jon will protect you.” At this moment Mance looked straight up at him and gestured for him to enter. “Come here, my boy.”

Jon did as he bid and knelt down beside Sansa on the dirty patched-up rug. For a long moment Mance simply looked at him, studying him as though seeing him for the very first time. Jon could see the wound now; a deep elegant cut just below his heart. Only a dagger could have left such an impression. His thoughts instantly turned to one sobbing conclusion but he pushed it to the back of his mind for now. Before him sat the man he considered both a brother and father. He had followed Mance all of his life and never once questioned his intentions until Sansa. Hundreds of memories of Mance leapt to mind – of hunting together, fishing, joking, raiding – but they did not seem to fit this defeated man sat before him. Mance's searching grey eyes looked almost black in dark tent; the only light came from the fires outside.

“Here...” Mance shakily removed one of his heavy rings and handed it to Jon, who absently slipped it onto his index finger. “It's yours. It's always belonged to you...You've been like a brother to me, like a _son_. I put the first wooden training sword into your hand...do you remember? Please...don't judge me too harshly when you find out. All I've done...I've done it for the _north_.” He broke out into another coughing fit and Sansa whimpered.

“Mance, I-”

“Take her away, Jon,” he rasped. “Love her and care for her as you both deserve. They'll fight 'till dawn, until they're all dead in the snow. Frozen heroes. Take them somewhere safe and warm, Jon...and try to forgive me.”

Jon wordlessly drew Sansa to her feet and held her close, feeling her body shake with emotion. In a way it helped him not to do the same.

The King Beyond the Wall smiled and his head rolled back against the chair. He was straining for breath now. “Go, now, both of you. Before they come. Run. I'm going to Dalla. My lovely Dalla. _I reached too high..._ ”

Jon felt tears in his own eyes but quickly wiped them away. Later he would have the time to mourn but for now he had to get them as far away as possible. The noise outside was deafening and drawing ever closer. He guided Sansa outside and they ran as quickly as they could towards the edge of the camp. He kept his eyes open for any sign of Robb Stark but all he could see were sparring Free Folk; the crows had obviously flown away with their lordling when the fire became too perilous. They were on their own. He saw Val fall at the hands of a turn-coat spear wife but Tormund was fighting four men at once with a blood-soaked axe.

They skirted around axes, swords and spears until they reached the outskirts of the camp. The guards had long ago abandoned their posts to join in on the fighting or flee but there were others who noticed them. Jon heard his name called out by several of his clansman but he kept his head down as they moved along. He no longer saw his clan against another's...he just saw hundreds of tired and muddy folk. Mance was right; there were no winners here. Just as they reached the last tent two thick necked men blocked their path and Jon pushed Sansa aside to draw his sword. Neither of the men were particularly skilled at fighting, obviously used to using their fists rather than steel, so Jon managed to slash one down almost at once. The other, however, managed to land a blow to Jon's head that sent him spinning to the ground. For a moment all he could see were little black and white dots before his eyes.

He was jolted back to life by the feeling of hands squeezing his neck. The man was grinning and trying to choke him with his fat powerful hands. Jon quickly reached down for his dagger and then plunged it up into the man's walrus like neck.

“ _Jon!_ ”

Jon pushed the man off and got to his feet, reeling a little at the pain in his head. Sansa was backed up against a tent with a large scarred man drawing closer, his grasping hands eager and cruel. He could hear the babe screaming in her arms. “ _Jon!_ ”

Armed with only a dagger and unthinking, he threw himself at the man, pulling him back with all the strength he could muster. The man was built like an ox, however, and easily threw him aside. He looked up just in time to see Sansa reach up and slap him across the face. His returning slap knocked her to the ground. The man bent down over her and again Jon tried to pull him back. He pulled with all his might and succeeded, but in the process he dislocated his right shoulder. He screamed out in agony, feeling fire race up and down his arm. It seemed to sap him of his remaining strength and he dropped to his knees. The scarred man approached and he thought numbly, _I'm going to die just like Ygritte and Mance._ He could hear Sansa screaming his name.

And then there was a flash of white. A huge wolf – _a direwolf_ – leapt out of nowhere and clamped his large jaw around the man's arm, dragging him back to the ground. He wrung the limb back and forth like it was a toy while the man screamed in agony. Soon after another wolf arrived and together they ripped open the man's throat. Jon saw a flash of red and golden eyes and recognised them as the wolves from before. Instantly, for some incredible and bizarre reason, he felt safe.

Nevertheless his shoulder was still in agony and he wasted no time in pulling Sansa away. They could hear the sounds of tearing flesh and snapping limbs behind them but then the wolves caught up with them. Over the wind and snow, Sansa shouted, “I think we should follow them.”

They didn't have a choice. Jon nodded grimly and together they followed their honour guard away from the camp. The weather had become treacherous; the snow was falling quickly and it already reached their knees. Every step was hard and slow like walking through treacle. His strength was quickly abandoning him and to his shame he had to lean against Sansa for support. The child had ceased crying but that was just as concerning. He began to shrug off his cloak to give to them extra warmth but Sansa stopped him with a look. Soon enough, although it felt like hours, the noise of the battle vanished and they were left utterly alone in the wilderness.

“We'll make it,” Sansa whispered soothingly. She had one arm supporting his back while the other cradled the child. Jon begged her to leave him the snow and save herself. “Just a little further.”

They trudged through a countless number of bare trees and hills but nothing substantial enough to provide shelter. By this point even Sansa was beginning to falter. One of the wolves paused to look back at them and whined in the back of their throat. Jon absently waved them on.

He was about to suggest they rest, shelter or not, when Sansa suddenly sighed. “There! On the hillside...I think it's a keep of some sort.”

Jon wasn't listening. Suddenly the pain in his arm and back of his head became too much and he felt himself sway into icy cold darkness.

 

* * *

 

_Once again he was running through the trees and in his jaw he carried the remains of a deer carcass. This time he was hunting alone; his tawny mate was back in the warmth waiting for him. The others would be there too and would share their feast. He ran quickly, eager to be back near the fire, and on his way passed the blackened battlefield. No one had survived the fighting. He had gone along once or twice to see if he could sniff out any meat but it was all frozen or charred. He didn't give it a second thought._

“ _Promise me, Jon.”_

 _Promise what?_ He thought blearily. _We're away from Mance and the rest of them. We're together. Safe. On my honour, I won't let anyone else hurt you._ In his dreams her hair was always long and unbound.

When he finally woke up he found himself lying on a comfortable straw mattress, covered by a huge fur blanket. He heard a fire crackling in a hearth somewhere and could smell meat cooking. He looked around at his surroundings and found that he was on a raised platform of some sort. He sat up and saw light flickering below. The keep seemed familiar to him somehow and after a few minutes he realised he was in Craster's Keep. He'd been here only once before but it was impossible to forget the vile old man.

Memories of the battle came flooding back and he flinched. He saw Ygritte's horrified face and Mance's weary smile dance in front of him and he felt an incredible wave of guilt. He was alive whereas they were dead.

He sat up with a sigh and his shoulder ached, though it was not the piercing hot pain like before. He gingerly felt the back of his head as well and felt no abrasion. His stomach growled and he wondered how long he'd been asleep for. Shakily he got to his feet, his limbs aching from the rest, and carefully climbed down one of the many ladders leading down to the main room. _How did she even get me up here?_ He thought. In the middle of the hall was the hearth and sure enough a leg of something dark and charred was roasting on a spit, the dripping juice making the fire hiss and crackle. Around that were several wobbly stools, a large scrubbed table, a wooden weft in one corner, and three doors leading elsewhere. Sansa was no where to be seen.

He was about to go out and look for her when he heard a muffled cry. By the table was a small wooden crib stuffed with furs and feathers and tucked carefully inside was Mance's baby. He approached it hesitantly, unsure exactly of what to do. Like south of the Wall wilding men left the rearing of children to the women and so Jon had no experience with babes. He let the little boy grasp hold of his finger and his tiny rosebud lips opened as though expecting food. Jon chuckled wryly. _There's none of that here. You'll have to get used to goat's milk like the rest of us._

The door at the front opened and Sansa came in, breathless from the cold. She had a new fur cloak on that was even thicker than the one before and was holding a pile of damp firewood. When she saw Jon she looked relieved. The cold had made her nose turn pink but apart from that she looked healthy and well.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, nudging the door closed behind her. “You'd better sit down. I'm sure you ache all over.”

Jon remained standing and quickly took the firewood from her, abashed. “I'm fine. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have slept for so long. It's not fair leaving you to do everything. How long has it been since...since the battle?”

Sansa waved his concern aside and took a seat besides the baby. “Only three days. You fought bravely, you deserved the rest. Besides, there's a store of cut firewood out there so it's no trouble.”

“Did you fix my arm?” Jon knelt beside the fire and fed it a few of the logs. It took a while to catch but it felt good to do something useful after his long rest. Sansa had built them a good fire and Jon was surprised; Val and Dalla had obviously taught her well.

Sansa winced. “I saw Tormund do it once, back in your village. You were half-asleep but I didn't want to leave it in case it became worse. You passed out again from the pain. How does it feel now?”

“It aches but a little.” He noticed that she had a large purple bruise on one cheek and remembered the scarred man striking her. He raised an eyebrow pointedly. “I never expected you to slap a wildling.”

“I didn't mean to,” she admitted with a little laugh of her own. “It just sort of happened. I thought he'd hurt Mance.” She gestured to the baby and Jon nodded. _So she's following his wishes. We have a new Mance now_.

Mance's name hung between them like chain. He wanted to ask her about that night but couldn't find the right words. How did you ask someone, someone so sweet and pure, if they were a murderer? And what if she wasn't? If that was the case he would only insult her honour and cause an argument. And if she was...could he bring himself to hate her?

He felt the ring around his finger and studied it for a moment. It was wrought from heavy gold with a crest of some sort on one side. Mance had obviously not taken care of it for scratches and grime clung to the crest. He looked closely and could make out the faint lines of an animal...a tale, claws, sharp tongue, wings. He showed it to Sansa and she sucked in her breath. “It's a dragon.”

A dragon. Jon had heard about them from the stories, of course, but never seen a picture of one.

“How odd,” she continued, looking again. “It looks like a _Targaryen_ dragon. The Targaryen's are an ancient family,” she added in explanation. “The Mad King was the last Targaryen. I remember studying his red and black sigil in my lessons...I wonder why Mance had it.”

Before they could ponder any further a howl came from outside. He immediately remembered the wolves and their miraculous rescue. He could still hear the crunching and snapping of limbs. “Are they still here?”

“They only leave to hunt. They left that for us this morning,” she added, nodding at the cooking meat. “I know it sounds crazy but I think they're protecting us.”

“They led us here safely enough.”

“Do you know where we are?” she asked as she carefully inspected the meat. Deeming it done, she took down the spit and began dividing it. “The storeroom is full of old cheese and dried meats. There's even spare cloaks and boots. It looks like whoever lived here left in a hurry. The door wasn't even barred.”

Jon cleared his throat uncomfortably. “It's called Craster's Keep. Craster was a foul old man but he was tough...” Foul was one word for it but Sansa didn't need to know the details, especially before eating. “It must have taken something truly bad to drive him away.”

They fell into silence once more, thinking about all the horrors above the Wall while eating their modest meal. Later Sansa tried to coax Mance into drinking some goat's milk she'd found outside - “ _still in the pail_ ” - and afterwards he fell into a peaceful slumber. The fire made the large hall snug and Jon found himself nodding off as well, although when he woke up he insisted Sansa go upstairs with the babe to sleep while he explored properly. The keep was secure enough with heavy oaken doors and spiked fences but the eerie silence outside unnerved him. On the second night of his vigil he opened the doors to let the wolves in but apart from that he kept them bolted shut.

The wolves seemed almost tame now in comparison to before. It seemed strange but he never once expected them to turn on them. He trusted them. They stretched out before the fire, dozing or lazily watching them, like huge docile pets. He started to call the white wolf Ghost and Sansa named the female Lady. When he questioned her choice of name she merely smiled, “ _she sits like a proper little lady._ ” Once Lady had even gone so far as to rest her head on Sansa's lap.

They – him, Sansa, little Mance, and the wolves - continued in this way for a week. As Sansa had said there was more than enough food in the stores to keep them full and the wolves went out to hunt every other night. They didn't speak much and slept late into the morning. Jon and Sansa took turns in the the large bed while the other kept an eye on things below, except for one particularly cold night when Sansa crawled into the bed beside him. Neither said a word as he pulled her close and they remained entangled like that until the morning.

He desperately wanted to talk to her, to put an end to his troubling doubt, but he couldn't help the way his body reacted to her touch. She might've killed his almost-father and yet he worried whenever she stepped outside.

“You still have blood on your neck,” Sansa murmured that night. “I tended to the cut on your arm but I didn't think to wash the rest of you.”

Jon flushed at the thought but before he could protest she filled a bowl with warm water and knelt down between his feet. He felt immediately uncomfortable but she dipped a length of cloth into the water and, as though he was no stronger than the little prince, tenderly began cleaning his cheek. He tried to keep his gaze on the top of her head but as she worked she hummed and he felt his gaze lower to her plump lips. They were only a few inches apart; he could lean forward and kiss her if he wanted to. The patched dress she was wearing was far too big for her and kept slipping off her shoulder.

“Don't kneel for me,” he said quietly and drew her up by the soapy hands. “It isn't right that you should kneel for me.” Nobody had knelt down to him before and he didn't think it was right that she should be the first. Kneeling to him symbolised submission and Sansa didn't deserve that again.

Sansa softly kissed his forehead but didn't say anything as she moved behind him and began de-tangling his hair. The feeling of her fingers on his scalp was, if possible, even better than on his cheek. He felt himself lean back into her, his head grazing just above her stomach, and he heard her sigh. Soon after - _far too soon after -_ she was finished and sitting back down across the hearth.

She was breathing heavily as though she had just finished a race. He noticed that her hands were shaking too. He wanted to bury his face in those hands.

“Are we staying here?” she asked after a moment.

Jon sat up straight and admitted, “I'm taking you to the Wall.” He'd decided back on the battlefield that he would see her home safely. It was a long overdue quest. Her brother might even be waiting there. He wasn't sure what he expected from Sansa – a cheer or a grin maybe – but she remained very still.

“And then?”

“And then you'll be safe. The Crow's will take you back home to your family.” _And you can try to forget all of this._

“What of you?”

He shrugged and tried to look unconcerned. Where could he go really? The remaining members of his clan would gut him alive as a traitor if he ever tried to go back.

“I want you to come with me,” she said bluntly and blushed. “To Winterfell. I don't want to leave you.”

Beyond the Wall? The Crow's would kill him before Sansa could even speak. Besides, he was a Free Man. Beyond the Wall was the only life he knew. He would not fit in with the pampered lords in the South, no matter how hard he tried. He was also intensely aware that while still North of the Wall Sansa needed him but in the South she would drop him as quickly as an old cloak. She liked him well enough here but when she was back amongst her friends and family he would become nothing to her. He didn't think he could handle that.

However, he knew better than to say any of this...Sansa would only tell him he was being foolish.

And there was still something he wanted to know.

“We need to talk about Mance.”

She flinched as though struck by some invisible hand; she had obviously been expecting a different answer. “No we don't.”

“He was already dying when I entered that tent. I saw the wound - it could've only been a dagger.” _And the only weapon you know how to use is a dagger_. “Somebody stabbed him.”

Sansa remained silent for a long time, gazing into the fire as though she couldn't even see him. He wondered if he should say something more - “ _I understand”, “I know you didn't mean to”, “He deserved it_ ” - but even he didn't quite believe them. Mance had given her every reason to wish for his death but the idea of her actually taking his life was so grievously sad. When she finally raised her eyes to his he saw hurt swimming in their depths. “You think I killed him.”

“Did you?”

“Do you really need to ask, Jon?”

She slammed the front door closed behind her and Jon was left alone with the young prince. He leant forward, cradling his newly cleaned face in his hands. He'd never seen her look like that before and it tore him apart. But what was even more heartbreaking was that he still didn't know what to believe. _Yes, I did need to ask._ He'd stolen her, eventually, but still didn't know what she was capable of. Perhaps he didn't know her at all. 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait but - finally - here's the last chapter :) I truly hope you like it.

 

Much like the other Stark children Robb had always loved Old Nan's stories about great knights and their daring deeds. He wasn't interested so much in their valiant rescues but in their battles and daring adventures. He used to play in the grounds with Theon, pretending to be Barriston the Bold or Aegon the Dragonknight while Theon played the part of the evil bandit or thief. When he grew older he held true to those beliefs. He wanted to be a great lord to whom his people respected and looked up to. Countless songs and poems would be sung, detailing his life and great deeds, while he brought honour to the Stark name. He was very much aware of his Stark heritage and the big boots he had to fill.

When Sansa was old enough, and he was in a playful mood, she would gladly step in as the frightened princess who needed saving. Robb would jump forth, brandishing his wooden sword with a dozen flourishes, and beat the tyrant Theon and carry the cheering Sansa away. He could remember quite clearly the way she would look at him, her little face glowing with pride and love; she would cheer his name and dub him her gallant hero, promising that he would one day be the greatest knight in all the land. She had always been so sure of his strength and courage...It killed him that he had not lived up to her expectations.

He should have charged in with double the numbers, setting the whole bloody camp alight with flaming arrows. As it was he had been too eager to start and hadn't waited for reinforcements. In the rush he'd searched everywhere for Sansa but there had been no sign. He hoped against hope that she had run away from the fighting but the wildlings were a cruel bunch; he'd been a witness to their perversions and looting.

The sight of the battlefield the following morning would stay with him until his last day. The charred remains of the camp had still been smouldering in the bright white snow. He had seen a dead body before but the sight of so many laid bare before him troubled him more than he would admit. Not just men either, but women and unseasoned boys too. He wasn't used to such brutality. He had walked amongst them, searching for any sign of Sansa's chestnut curls, and had decided that, no, he didn't want to be a grand ruler if so much chaos was the price. He finally understood his father's resentment towards bloodshed. He felt older then, and knew he no longer a boy,

He returned to Castle Black with only half the men. His spirits were crushed and for days he would not talk to anyone but to bark orders. His fathers grim disappointed face and mothers echoing sobs were enough to keep sleep at bay.

“Milord!”

Robb all but growled. “What is it now?”

“Come and look, milord.” The guard was grinning.

Robb was in no mood for jesting but something about the guards bright face made him curious. He followed him up to the top of the Wall, careful to keep his footing under the fierce wind. The sun was rising and it made the treacherous land beyond the Wall look almost beautiful. The guard was pointing at something. “Just there...on the horizon, if you please.”

Robb's gaze took in the bare trees and lakes...and almost missed the fur clad couple making their way towards them. He was about to question the guard when he saw flaming red hair reflected in the sunlight.

Orders were immediately sent forth to open the gates.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa was pacing in the garden of Craster's keep, her boots crunching in the heavy snow and leaving smudged footprints. She cursed beneath her breath all of the foul words she could think of and after meeting Tormund Giantsbane she had picked up quite a few.

_Jon thinks I'm a murderer._

It was a chilly night so she hunched up underneath her cloak but she had no intention of going back inside just yet. She was hurt by his accusation, but what was worse was that she couldn't correct him. Back home in Winterfell the penalty for murder was a beheading. Her father had been called upon to act as executioner more than once although, of course, she had never been asked to witness it. Sansa recalled a time when she was very young and her father had been called upon to inflict the kings justice on a notorious beggar. Sansa had scruched up her face at the thought of blood and beseeched her lady mother to intervene but Catelyn Stark had simply bowed her head and replied, _“Your father must uphold the kings justice. A murderer is accursed in the eyes of the Gods. He has no place in our world.”_

The septons said that murder was a sin in the eyes of the Gods. Sansa looked up at the starry sky above and could feel seven pairs of stern eyes looking right back at her.

She stayed outside until her teeth began to chatter and finger tips became numb. By now the fire was burning low in the hearth and she could hear the steady even breathing of Mance in his crib. The wolves, their shared protectors, were asleep beside it so she felt no need to check on him. She was sure that Lady and Ghost would stop at nothing to protect the child. So instead she climbed up the ladder and wasn't surprised to find Jon awake. It was almost pitch black but she could still see the whites of his eyes and strong outline of his face. He watched silently as she removed her frosty outer clothing and slipped underneath the covers beside him. For a long moment they were both still.

“I'm sorry,” he eventually murmured.

_You sweet boy._

“I...I want to tell you what happened,” Sansa hesitated. “But I'm afraid you'll hate me.”

“I could never hate you.” This was spoken in wonder, as though he himself was surprised by the revelation. Sansa hoped sorely it was true.

She reached out and placed a hand on his rough cheek. He felt so warm and solid beneath her touch. She suddenly wanted nothing more than to be cradled within his arms; cradled away from the horrors outside and the pain and she guilt she felt inside.

She spoke in a whisper, finding it easier to confess under the cover of darkness. She thought back to that terrifying night; to the dancing figures and fire lighting up her tent wall. “I was afraid. Outside of my tent I could hear screaming and fighting...I was terrified somebody would set the tent on fire or come inside and hurt me. But I knew, too, that it would be my only chance of escape...after you...refused me. I pulled my cloak on and hurried to Mance's tent, thinking about the baby and how I couldn't leave him. When I got there Mance was already on the ground...” she paused. She could still see Mance's stark white face.

“Go on, Sansa.”

She took a deep breath before continuing and noticed her limbs were shaking. “He was unconscious and covered in blood. I wanted to just run away but somehow I couldn't move my feet. I couldn't help it...but I knelt down before him and took his hand. He looked so old. Nothing like the Mance who stole me. I never liked him, Jon, but I did admire him sometimes. His vigour and strength. But the man in front of me then was a shadow of his former self...even his voice was empty. I pitied him, then, the man who stole me away from my family. Who humiliated and mocked me. He woke up then and saw me...I thought he would shout at me but he just stared. Then he asked me something. He said he'd been betrayed and left for dead. It was only then that I noticed the blood on his chest...

He asked me for the gift of mercy and I gave it to him.”

Sansa hadn't noticed the tears until Jon started gently wiping them away with his thumb. He didn't say anything and she understood that he didn't want to know anymore. He didn't want to know that Mance himself placed her hand on the hilt of the dagger, that she pushed it in as gently as a caress, or that he never once looked away from her face. Those memories would stay with her alone and she would keep them locked away at the bottom of her heart. What was done was done. Except...

“I am a murderer,” she confessed sadly. “And now you know it.”

“Sometimes the right thing to do is the hardest. You acted from the heart, as always. The Gods themselves wouldn't dare to judge you.”

“Papa always said it was a sin.”

Jon pressed a gentle kiss to her quivering hands and then murmured, “If you're a sinner, Sansa Stark, then the Gods help the rest of us.”

“So you don't despise me?”

“I killed my first man when I was little more than a lad. He'd been stealing from our stores and selling them on to another tribe at three times the price – two sins. I took his head off with two blows and Mance proclaimed me a man...and yet do you despise me?”

“No,” she whispered. Her father would call it justice. “You did the right thing.”

He pulled her into his arms and there she lay, her little head resting against his bare chest and she fell asleep to the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. When they awoke in the morning they were embarrassed and overly polite to one another and ignored what was left unsaid. He would never again ask about Mance's death and she in turn wouldn't offer any more details. Jon helped her to feel a little bit better about what she did but it would still haunt her until her last day.

She had taken a life and at the same time lost her innocence. She clung to his words like a drowning person.

They stayed at Craster's keep for another week before Jon quietly decided it was time to leave. Together they packed up the few items they had (after snitching generously from Craster's stores) and ventured out of the cabin. Jon had a bundle of furs and food thrown over one shoulder and his long sword was strapped to his back while at his side swung a small sharp axe. The night before he had fashioned a sling out of some material so Sansa could strap Mance onto her back and leave her hands free. Neither of them said a word as they trunched through the snow and Sansa kept her gaze firmly on Lady. They both knew what was happening and what would come to pass once they reached the Wall...and the thought of separating from Jon now broke her heart.

She recalled his first act of kindness towards her...when he gave her a little wizened apple on their journey to Mance's village. It seemed like such a long time ago.

She thought about her life south of the Wall. She wouldn't be able to go back to what she was – she had changed too much. Pretty dresses, dancing at feasts, and dreaming about being Joffrey Baratheon's queen would no longer be enough to excite her. She wished desperately that it wasn't so but she was no longer a little girl. Mance had stolen that from her.

He wouldn't steal Jon too.

When they reached the Wall Jon's steps faltered but Sansa took his gloved hand. The sun was coming up behind them and it made his face look far younger than it was. Sansa couldn't help but think that the rising sun was an omen of good luck. _Perhaps the Gods don't hate me, after all_. She gave his hand a little squeeze and he nodded, resuming his pace with a tight smile.

“You're coming with me.”

Jon sighed, long used to this conversation. She had tried a dozen times to convince him to accompany her home to Winterfell but each time it led to nothing. “Sansa... I told you I can't. I belong here, above the Wall.”

“You belong with me,” she said with a strange certainty. “When I first saw you I felt I could trust you. That I should trust you. Do you remember? I asked you for some water in Mance's hut. Something pulls me to you...and I can't explain it. If I feel upset or frightened only your touch soothes me,” she blushed. “And you feel it too. I know you do. You didn't know me or have any reason to protect me but you did. You protect us both – little Mance and I.”

Behind them the wolves whimpered and Ghost jogged forward to Sansa's side. She gave him a quick pet, never taking her eyes off Jon.

“Maybe I sound foolish. Maybe I've heard too many songs and stories, but there's something at work here. Something I don't fully understand. All I do know is that I need you to come with me.”

Jon frowned, obviously considering her words and trying to somehow find an excuse but after several moments he sighed, beaten.

“As you wish. I'll accompany you to Winterfell...to wherever you chose. But I'm no knight, Sansa. I'm just a wildling boy.”

Sansa smiled, relieved beyond measure. “You were kind to me when you didn't have to be. That makes you greater than any knight.”

 

* * *

 

At first she couldn't believe it. She didn't want to raise her hopes just to have them cruelly dashed away again, but despite this her pulse began to race and her stomach felt tight. There were horses coming in through the gates of Winterfell and riding at the front was her eldest son, clad in his best armour. Catelyn inched forwards down the steps, a hand clutched to her breast. Her cloak billowed out in the wind and strands of hair kept falling in front of her eyes.

“Sansa?” she whispered, hoping against hope.

This was too cruel. She watched as Robb swung somebody down from the saddle and then there was laughter.

Bright blue eyes. Pink lips. Freckles dashed across the nose.

“My baby...” Lady Stark was a woman admired by all for her grace and dignity but it was all disregarded as she hurried down the remaining steps and ran towards the girl. “My baby girl! My beautiful baby girl...”

The two women scrambled into each others arms and fell to their knees in the snow, sobbing until the tears could no longer fall. Catelyn gathered her close and kissed her face and hands. She was here, truly, and not just another figment of her imagination. She smelt her short hair, so much like Robb's, and smelt pine and dirt. “My baby...” she whispered.

“ _Mamma_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with me and this story. I'm very proud of it and if I had the time I'd write a sequel...but I can't promise anything. Your comments have been so kind and supportive :)


	11. Chapter XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a mighty big gap. I had every intention of leaving the story here and being really proud of it but creativity has struck again (probably brought on by the Jon/Sansa scenes in the tv show and the very attractive actors) and I need to continue to write. I was thinking of beginning this as a new story but I really enjoyed writing Raise the Stakes and I think this will add to it nicely.
> 
> Think of this as a Part Two

 

 

**Part Two**

 

* * *

 

 

For months she had prayed and wept to her Gods for her sweet daughter to come home. At first she had prayed feverishly, remaining on her knees throughout the night before the statue of the Mother, ignoring nourishment and all responsibilities. Then Ned had come home with an arrow in the back and her fierce and strong resolve had crumpled into something helpless. Her prayers became pleas. If her daughter was to die then let it be done gently. _Gentle Mother above, please do not let her suffer. Spare her pain_. Better she succumb to the elements then have her hurt and devoured at the hands of some brute Wildling. The image of her beautiful daughter weeping - screaming, bleeding - tormented her. Sometimes she felt like running her nails down her face, wondering if the pain would replace her despair.

Imagine her joy, then, when her Sansa came back.

It was a miracle.

Catelyn Stark wrapped her arms around her oldest daughter. She felt the warm breath on her neck as Sansa nuzzled into her embrace, as though she were still a child. She felt a strong surge of love, so unconditional and strong, take hold and she wept tears of both happiness and bitterness; happiness that she should be lucky enough to hold Sansa once more and bitterness from all the horrors she must have endured. They ran down her cheeks and onto the head of her little girl.

"Mama," she whispered. "I wanted to be with you."

Catelyn Stark gently stoked her daughters hair and ordered hot water for a bath. Catelyn washed her daughters hair herself, noticing now the short length of it. There were other changes too. Each one gave her reason to pause.

"You have been so brave, my love," she said quietly.

She had questions, of course she had a dozen, but she didn't want to burden Sansa with them until she'd had a good night's sleep. She watched over her that night, laying beside her on the bed and listening to her even breathing. Sansa's face was turned towards her but when Catelyn looked down at it she felt a stab of grief. She knew that face - those familiar high cheekbones, that straight nose, that dust of freckles. If Sansa's eyes were open she would've seen her own peering sleepily back at her. She knew this face - and yet she didn't. What had caused that edge of hardness? That sadness? She was her own flesh and blood, made in her own womb, and Catelyn Stark could see, wretchedly, that this was not the same little girl as before. This older girl had seen things, done things, that had changed her.

Catelyn wept throughout the night for her loss of innocence but as soon as Sansa woke up she hid her tears. She would not bring any further grief to her daughter.

Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane were both anxious to see Sansa and so in the morning Catelyn allowed them in. Sansa was gently inspected and proclaimed healthy, although in need of rest, good food and warmth. Questions arose and Septa Mordane spoke tenderly, for which Catelyn was appreciative.

"Sansa...I need to ask you if you are in the motherly way. Do you remember our lessons? About men and the ways of marriage? Nobody would blame you if you are, my dear, but we must prepare ourselves accordingly. We all care about you."

Sansa turned pale but she shook her head. Catelyn felt relief wash over her - that Sansa had been wrongly touched had been one of her biggest fears. It seemed almost impossible, however, as the Wildlings were well known for their lecherous behaviours.

"Are you sure, Sansa? You were not touched in any inappropriate way?"

"I...I suffered, but not in that way. He protected me from that."

That would have to do for now. But then...

"What of the babe? Where did he come from?" The sickly child Sansa had brought with her was currently in the care of a kitchen woman who had recently lost her own baby. He had cried ever since his arrival.

"Mance. He's called Mance," Sansa replied, looking immediately sad. "He's the son of Mance Ryder and Dalla. I couldn't leave him. He can stay, can't he, mother? He's just a babe."

A bastard of sorts, and a wildling to boot, but he was just a tiny child. Catelyn nodded; she would see to his permanent care later on.

"Is there anything else you want to tell us? Do not push yourself, you may take your time," Maester Luwin added gently, his ancient face kind. "Your father, brothers and sister are all waiting to see you. They've missed you very much. Those wolves of yours are waiting outside the gates with the others..."

"The others?" Sansa questioned.

The Maester smiled. "It appears there is some magic afoot, some higher mystery. All of you Stark children are now protected by direwolves. Your brothers and sister have adopted wolves too."

Sansa suddenly grinned in wonder and again Catelyn felt shut out. Sansa had never had any secrets before...Catelyn would have to adjust.

"I want to see father. May I see them all here?"

"Of course. I'll send for them," Septa Mordane nodded and took her leave. Maester Luwin followed, his chain bouncing softly against his chest as he moved. "I believe my lord is dealing with the wildling boy at the moment."

"Jon. Can I see Jon too?" Sansa had sat up straight at the mention of him.

"You can see him afterwards, Sansa," Catelyn decided quietly, studying her child closely. "Who is this boy? What is he to you?"

"He saved me. He showed me kindness and then brought me back. I owe him my life, mama," Sansa said solemnly. "It's odd and I can't explain it but there's something about him. You'll see when you meet him. I feel so...familiar with him and safe. Like I've known him forever. I trust him."

Catelyn listened carefully and heard the words of a young girl who still believed in songs and first love. Sansa was obviously smitten with the boy, that was clear, and to be expected if he was the only one to show her any kindness above the Wall. He was a wildling, however, which meant he was untrustworthy and even though she hadn't seen him properly, he appeared to be around Robb's age. Had he only been helping  Sansa or trying to spirit her away again for his own needs? Catelyn was inclined to distrust him until proven otherwise. Yet, he had a direwolf. Catelyn believed in the new Gods but even she could appreciate that there was something mysterious and unsettling about her Stark children and the wolves. The direwolf was a sigil of the house of Stark and if one trusted this wildling boy then wasn't that a sign of something?

"He's no wildling, mother."

"How so?"

"He has a Targaryen ring. No wildling should own that."

She would have to talk to her husband.

 

* * *

 

 

Eddard Stark was faced with a decision that seemed impossible. It was the night following Sansa's return and he was sat in his grand solar, propped up on a padded chair for his comfort. His back was still healing and it meant he spent a lot of time these days off his feet resting. His solar, compared to those of other lords, was a solemn one and the roaring fire in the hearth was the only warm thing about it. On the large wooden desk lay a dozen letters, all from lords near and far away, about their fruitless searches for Sansa. One even held the golden seal of the king, who had added his own voice to Ned's requests. He had written to every lord North of the Neck and requested they join in on the search. Like always, he had shown good friendship towards to Ned, who had worried briefly that his refusal of the Handship would sour their friendship.

Ned felt tired, so utterly tired, and was eager to return to his daughters side. He had spent the day surrounded by his wife and children. It made his heart glad to see his sweet girl back home safe and while he was a man of little words he had managed to find the right words once she was back in his arms. He'd held her for a long time, resting his chin on the top of her head and letting her cry into his furs. Sansa had always been a loving girl, unafraid to express her emotions. He'd stroked her hair back from her face and planted a fatherly kiss on her brow. Robb had been more reserved, believing himself to be too old and important for such things, but at the Wall he had crumpled at the sight of Sansa and run like a child into her arms. The little ones were happy too - Arya, Bran and the baby Rickon. Arya had sat quietly at her sisters side, leaning against her and holding her hand, Bran had skipped around the room laughing, and Rickon, who didn't understand much of what was going on, sat at Sansa's feet and asked her why she'd been away for so long.

His wife was trying to be strong. He saw the way she held herself and the set of her jaw, but he knew she was desperate for information. She wanted to know everything that had happened to her beloved child and he couldn't blame her. She quietly told him about the meeting with the Maester and Ned was relived - his hands shook at any thought of his daughter being touched in any foul way. He couldn't help but remember his sister and her own doomed demise. Thank the old gods his Sansa had been spared that end.

He had a duty to attend to, however, and had eventually torn himself away.

To his right stood Robb and Catelyn and before him, hands bound and escorted by two rough guardsmen, was the wildling named Jon.

Ned knew that children above the Wall had to grow up quickly in order to survive, and so wasn't surprised to see that this was both a boy and a man grown at the same time. He was the same height as Robb but there the similarity ended; Robb was clean with combed hair and had the look of someone who had been very well cared for and fed. This boy before him wore a scowl but Ned could see plainly that the boy was terrified and trying very hard not to show it. There was also anger there and indignation at his treatment. He looked to his wife and saw that she was eyeing him as well.

She saw it too.

The resemblance was remarkable. Ned had seen it straight away but had remained silent, weighing up the possibilities. The black hair, the long face, the serious grey eyes. The boys face twisted and he saw a flash of his late brother Brandon.

"You bear my likeness. More so than any of my own children, in fact." Catelyn wouldn't like that but Ned had never shied away from the truth.

The boy shifted. "I guess so."

"You are called Jon? Unusual name for wildling. Who were your parents?"

"That's my business."

Robb bristled. "You will answer my father, wildling."

Jon stared at him before dropping his gaze to the floor. "I don't know. They died when I was a child."

Ned considered him. "I have known wildlings. Most of them are dishonourable, untrustworthy people but I have known some to be good men, just unlucky to born on the wrong side of the Wall. My wife tells me that Sansa has spoken of your kindness towards her. Why did you bring my daughter back?"

"I just wanted to," Jon replied, keeping his gaze lowered. "She needed help."

"For a reward? Gold?"

"I've never even seen gold before. I planned on leaving once Sansa was safe at the Wall, but she convinced me to stay. I would have had no use for coin above the Wall. We don't use it."

"That's a handsome gold ring you're wearing," Catelyn pointed out.

"I was given this."

"I don't believe him, father. He fought with the wildlings," Robb interrupted. "I saw him. He fought _me_."

Ned sighed. "You were in Mance Ryder's war party?"

"Yes."

"And you would have killed us had you the chance. If that King-Beyond-the-wall had managed to pull off his plan," Robb pointed out. "You would have followed him over the Wall and killed anyone in your path."

"Mance took me in and saved my life. He raised me," Jon was speaking frankly. Ned could hear the honesty in his voice. "It was my duty to follow him."

Ned could understand that. His son was too young to understand but Ned knew the value of obligation and the sense of duty. How many young men had died in battle just because their liege lord ordered them to? Sometimes, in life, you had no choice but to carry out your duty. He would not hold that against him.

Catelyn stepped forward. "He has a direwolf, Ned. Sansa said they both found them beyond the Wall and they've followed them back."

Another direwolf? That made the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.

"Ghost found me," Jon said quietly. "He protects me."

"Let me see that ring," Catelyn requested and one of the guardsman roughly took the ring from him. Jon either didn't value it too highly or knew he would be no match for them for he remained still. Catelyn took it and examined it carefully, seemingly confirming something to herself. She held it out to Ned and he took it, seeing for himself the three headed dragon etched there. "How did you say you got this ring?"

"I was given it by Mance. He said it belonged to me. I think - _I believe_ ," he sighed.  "It's all I have left of my kin."

Now Ned was confounded.  "That's all?"

Jon lifted his gaze and he looked annoyed. He spoke heatedly. "And that my mother was a fool. I overhead Mance speaking once when he thought I wasn't there. He called her a "poor fool". Now you know."

Ned looked at his wife and saw that her face was pale - she had reached the same conclusion as him. He felt lightheaded and the pain from the wound in his back seemed to suddenly overwhelm him. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his tunic, realising as he did so that he was covered in a sweat.

"You may stay here for now, at your leisure. You brought my daughter back and for that you have my thanks. But you may not approach my daughter alone again, only with a chaperone. Now excuse me, but I need to rest."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the Kudos and comments that continued to come long after I finished. You're a lovely bunch. If you have any suggestions or ideas please feel free to share. I have one or two ideas where this may go.


	12. Chapter XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double trouble. I loved the idea of spinning it around - so Jon was the outsider and Sansa fit in.

 

 

Jon began a solitary and lonely life at Winterfell. He was the outcast now, having to live among people who feared and despised him, looking anywhere for scraps of kindness. In a way it was fortunate that he had a quiet nature because there were days where he would go without talking to anyone. A long, cold, quiet year flew by since his arrival at Winterfell and he was now a man of seventeen years. He had not changed much in appearance - except for the new scars and blisters that littered his hands, and he was broader than before but that was due to the twice-daily cooked meals he received. Above the Wall he had been lucky to get one.

He was used to crude shelters and so admired Winterfell's large stone walls and twisting ancient towers. It was larger than any building above the Wall and he couldn't imagine anything greater, even in the faraway King's Landing. He'd spent a long time exploring the castle, the battlements, and the wild surrounding countryside so that he knew it as well as any Stark now. Intricate tapestries, no doubt sewn with care by the women of the castle, and wax candles decorated its long halls, roaring fires graced the fireplaces (all year round), and hot water was piped up through the walls so that for the first time in his life Jon was never cold. His private bedchamber was humble and modest but the oak bed alone was finer than anything he had previously owned and the pillows were stuffed with real goose feathers. The fact that he had a bedroom to himself was extraordinary enough, as most servants slept together in the servants quarters, but Eddard Stark had insisted out of gratitude. There were so many people living in the castle, from the family itself to the guests and the servants. There were more people living here than double his entire tribe - no, _triple_ \- and it was a hive of activity. The people seemed cheerful too - perfectly at ease to kneel before Eddard Stark and serve him.

There was no choice but for Jon to remain at Winterfell. He couldn't go back above the Wall, his clan was gone, slain in the ambush, and any survivors would kill him on sight as a kneeling traitor. He couldn't live anywhere else in the south as he had no kin to claim or even the remotest idea about how life worked. He could find paid work on a farm, certainly, and build a life as a simple southern man but he was not made for that sort of thing; he was a fighter; he needed to feel steel in his hands. As such he was granted an apprenticeship under Mikken the blacksmith. Jon was expected to rise early six days a week and start the fires before Mikken was even awake, then assist him and the other smiths with the making and upkeep of the castle weapons and armour. This gave Jon a unique chance to practise with his own broadsword and to also use other weapons, so long as he kept them sharp and put them back afterwards (they all believed him to be light-fingered). It was tough work which left him tired and blistered from the heat but it was honest and gave him purpose in the castle. He would not live off Stark's charity.

After his responsibilities were over he would walk around the castle or sometimes linger in the courtyard and watch while the master-at-arms Roderick Cassel put the Stark children through their paces. The ward Theon Greyjoy was also included but he didn't seem to take it seriously, always looking around instead to see if anyone worthwhile was watching. Only the boys were trained in weapons, Jon noted with a wry smile. He had seen Sansa's grubby little sister Arya eyeing up the practise swords with longing but as a girl she was expected to sew and dance instead. She was an awkward girl of twelve, with none of the famous Tully grace, but she had spirit and an iron will. He sympathised with her and never said anything if he saw her sneaking out of her lessons. He thought of Ygritte and Val then, and of what they'd say if someone asked them to sew. Ygritte had been particularly good at making up foul curses. Whenever he thought about his past friends he felt an ache of pain - one only time would heal.

Sometimes he would be asked to join in the training. Robb was a very skilled swordsman and a lord besides, and therefore lacked proper opponents who were not afraid to hit him. Jon was a very good match. Some days he was the champion but on others he found himself knocked on his back in the mud. Robb would always smile then and help him to his feet for another round. Both were eager pupils, listening to Roderick's counsel and observations, and together they became exceptional warriors.

"Move yer' feet more. Don't just bash him!" Roderick shouted from the side. "Yer ain't above the Wall anymore. Those wildling ways won't serve yer here...hit him!"

Instead of rising to the bait, Jon ducked Robb's strike. Roderick was a tough old man but he was sharp and, more importantly to Jon, didn't seem to care at all where Jon came from.

"If you can!" Robb taunted, laughing.

At first he had been unsure of Robb's feelings towards him. The lordling certainly didn't trust him, he had been brought up to fear and loathe wildlings, but eventually he began to drop his guard. At first Robb would speak to him politely about weaponry and armour but soon it turned into tales of his drunken antics with Theon and encounters with a lusty barmaid named Roz. Jon would listen thoughtfully and offer a comment or two. He was careful, he'd been raised to look down on southerners and their feeble ways but he _liked_ Robb. Robb should have been easy to hate; he was pampered, proud, spoilt, but he was also funny and kind. He enjoyed wit and had a natural goodness to him that made people warm to him. Jon knew that Robb had a lot of responsibility on his shoulders but could see that he would make a good leader one day. The only thing that soured a potential friendship was Jon's ever constant attachment to Robb's sister.

On one such afternoon, after a truly fierce spar with Robb, Jon saw Sansa watching him from the snowy steps to the sept. She was bundled up in thick white furs with a book beneath one arm, obviously on her way to her lessons, but had paused for a moment to watch them. She looked down at him with a look of pride and pleasure on her pretty face and he suddenly felt inches taller. She sent him one fleeting sad smile before being quickly ushered away by her vigilant septa. Jon had watched her go before Robb shook his shoulder.

He gave him a warning look.

From the very first day it was made very clear that Sansa was forbidden to him.

It had been a year since their arrival at Winterfell and Jon could count the amount of times they'd spoken on one scarred hand. Only when they were surrounded by others - by her siblings, by chaperones, by the measter - were they permitted to politely converse. He understood all too well; her parents were wary of him and what their closeness might (and might have already) lead to. Jon had learnt quickly the attitudes of these people. Sansa was a highborn lady and meant for somebody worthy with a title and land. Ladies here had to go to their husbands untouched and unblemished, as though an act of love could be considered a stain on her virtue, or else their reputations would be ruined. He thought about Val who loved freely and fiercely. It seemed ridiculous to him but then so did a lot of things here.

Yet he could still watch her. Subtly. He watched her at meal times as she ate, while talking in the courtyard with her sister and friends, when she prayed piously in her mother's sept. If he lingered inside before his chores he sometimes heard her singing from her classroom, her sweet voice reaching through the halls as though seeking him out to tease and torment. Once he walked past and saw her learning some new steps to a dance. She had spun gracefully, her arms wide, and her eyes alight with pleasure. She had grinned at the sight of him in the doorway but that same septa had immediately slammed the door in his face, barring him from her joy.

He remembered a time above the Wall when he had delighted in simply watching her. Circumstances had not entirely changed.

Only when he was alone in his bedroom did he allow himself to linger on past moments together. How she'd kissed him surrounded by blue roses, how they'd slept wrapped together in the same bed in Craster's, how she'd danced defiantly in the clearing, how she'd clung to him as they approached the gates of the Wall, desperate that they would not be parted. He knew what her lips felt like. He knew what her favourite songs were. He knew that her hair glowed in the firelight.

He knew it had all been real, but as he'd predicted he was all but forgotten now she was home amongst her family and friends.

He could live with that, as long as he could remain near her. That was the real reason he stayed at Winterfell. As long as she was happy and safe.

"Jon?"

He looked up, expecting to see Mikken or one of the other smiths coming to remind him of some chore he'd forgotten to do, but it was Eddard Stark himself. He saw the lord nearly every day but it was rare that he sought him out directly. Every now and then they would speak but it was always short and brief - " _How is your training?" "Are you settling in?" "Mikken tells me..."._ He knew Stark was a quiet man who kept many of his thoughts to himself, much like Jon, and so took this as no insult. He waited silently until the older man stopped beside him. They were standing to the side of the training yard where Jon had been watching Bran practise with a bow.

"My lord." He had learnt Southern ways grudgingly. He didn't bother using titles usually but he liked Stark and had no problem with showing _him_ respect. He studied the man before him as subtly as he could; the strangeness of seeing himself reflected back had worn off although he still found it puzzling.

"I'm glad I caught you alone. A word, if you have a moment."

Jon nodded. They stood next to one another, leaning against the training yard gate. Eddard was watching his younger son lose another arrow and for a minute Jon thought he looked uncomfortable. When he finally he spoke, he spoke awkwardly.

"Winterfell is to host some royal visitors. Jaime and Tyrion Lannister. They'll be arriving soon and staying until some business is taken care of. I would be obliged if you...kept your head down and avoided them," he murmured. "I had thought to hold all of this off for a couple of years but Robert has never been one for patience. Or he just wants them out of his sight. It is well known that he can't stand either of them. Can't blame him."

"If you say so."

Eddard looked at him and Jon saw a flash of sympathy cross his usually severe face. "It's not...It's not your fault. Nothing you've done. I think you've settled in well and been a good help. It just wouldn't...It wouldn't look right to have you dining in the same hall as them. They'd take offence."

"Take offense to the uncivilised wildling in their midst," Jon shrugged. He was more stung then he realised - he thought Stark liked him. Why did he insist he stay here at Winterfell if this was the way he felt? "I understand."

"It's nothing you've done," Eddard repeated gravely. His face closed up and it was solemn again. "It would just be best if they didn't see you. Just keep yourself out of their way. Understand?"

"As you wish."

Jon remained in a bad mood that evening. His mood certainly didn't approve at dinner when Theon Greyjoy announced, after his third cup of ale, that he'd overheard a very important conversation between Eddard Stark and his wife. Jon personally couldn't stand the Greyjoy ward. He was lazy as only a lordling could be but lacked any of Robb's warmth or intelligence. He seemed to think he was far more important than he actually was - all because his father had rebelled years ago.

_Marriage._

Jon was not particularly interested in gossip and had every intention of turning in for the night when Theon continued.

 _Sansa_.

Suddenly it seemed that everyone in the castle was talking about it. Jon had gone to bed, thinking it a lie, but the next morning he heard the cooks talking about it in the kitchen. Then he heard the smith boys laughing about it.

The rumour was that an offer of engagement had arrived. From Joffrey Baratheon.

Prince Joffrey Baratheon. Robb had described him as a "little shit" during training but everybody else seemed to think he embodied everything that was fine and princely. According to the gossiping kitchen maids he was fair and handsome, like a prince from a fairytale. Jon felt a sting of loathing for the man... and jealousy, yes, there was a fair amount of resentment too. He had the good fortune to be born into a prominent family and therefore could command the hand of a girl as lovely as Sansa. It seemed completely unjust to Jon, who believed that perhaps these southerners were more like Wildlings than they liked to believe. Stealing a woman didn't seem much different now.

The news shook him.

The Starks had been kind to him so far but for the first time he deliberately defied their wishes and sought Sansa out alone. He found her in the room that served as her classroom, sitting by the window so that the morning light fell onto her sewing. Her back was straight and she held her head high - lessons she had been taught by her Septa. Instead of learning how to defend herself she was taught posture and how to sit gracefully. She kept her eyes lowered on her work although her gaze was cloudy. He wondered if she was daydreaming.

Beside her sat - or rather, _slouched_ \- Arya, whose work looked like a mess of knots.

"...but anyway Theon says wildlings are over ten feet tall but I don't believe him. He's always lying."

"Some were very tall, but no larger than Hodor."

Arya made a disappointed noise and then noticed Jon in the doorway. Arya resembled her father more than any of the other children - and so resembled Jon too. They both had the same messy dark hair and grave grey eyes.

"What do you want?" she asked, sitting up. "Does father want us?"

Jon hesitated. He wanted to speak to Sansa alone without an audience and he wasn't sure if Arya would tell if he asked her leave. He looked at Sansa and she met his eyes. Her eyes searched his and he felt the unexplainable pull he always felt towards her. He understood _kneeling_ then. He would gladly drop to his knees before her and promise her anything. If she wanted to flee he would go with her. If she stayed he would remain.

Sansa  glanced at her sister. "Leave us."

Arya frowned. "You're not supposed to be alone with him. Mother said."

"Jon's my friend. Please, Arya."

Arya tossed her sewing to the side and slowly left, looking Jon up and down as she went as though weighing him up. She glanced over her shoulder at Sansa once but apparently the lure of being alone and out of lessons was too appealing to pass up. She scampered out of the room without another word.

They were silent for a moment, both in wonder at finding themselves alone for the first time in a year.

"Will she tell?" Jon asked quietly.

"No. She may be annoying but she's my sister, and she wouldn't tell on me. I might have to pinch some strawberry tarts from the kitchen  to sweeten her up though."

Jon nodded but he wasn't really listening. He was just enjoying her voice.

"You're to be married?"

Sansa stood and her neat sewing fell to the floor forgotten. She had grown taller, reaching his chin now, and her waist was slimmer too. Her brilliant chestnut hair, the hair he adored and cherished, was growing too and although it was currently pinned up beneath a fancy net he knew that it reached her shoulders. The grey dress she was wearing was tailored and more grown up than the shapeless childish ones she used to wear, with a lower neckline and wider skirt. She also wore a corset now (or so Theon had pointed out) and the thought of her growing curves made him flush. She was undoubtedly growing up and he longed, when alone in his room, to touch her.

"My father has agreed to the match. He's very good friends with the king...and he could not refuse a second time. He asked years ago but my father told him I was too young," she explained quietly. "He doesn't know about you. About what I feel for you."

Jon breathed out. Still, still she cared for him.

"I thought for a moment...you wanted the marriage."

"In this instance, wildling women have it better. I have to marry who my father chooses, supposedly to benefit the family. I used to think it was so romantic...but now it feels like a cage. I'm trapped. Again."

Now he reached out. He touched her arm and she responded with joy, moving into him and placing her forehead on his chest. He held her and tore off the ridiculous hairnet so that he could run his fingers through her soft hair.

"Come with me."

She took hold of his shaking hand and led him quietly out of the castle, all the while looking around cautiously for those who would part them. Sansa knew all of the servant corridors and he wondered if she'd explored them as a child with her siblings. Nobody crossed their path as they fled to the godswood.

He knew this place now after extensively exploring it. He recognised the red face on the tree bark after seeing it a dozen times above the Wall. Jon was not particularly religious, he barely knew the meaning of the word, but he knew this was a place of worship and solitude.

Sansa was out of breath.

And then she was kissing him.

He instinctively pulled her close and kissed back with the same blazing fire. This was not like their first kiss - a tentative childlike peck with berry juice on their lips. Now they were pressing their lips together desperately as though nobody could pull them apart. Her lips were hard and warm beneath his. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her against him tightly.

When they finally broke apart, they were both trembling.

"I..." she breathed. "

"I know."

They embraced and the gods above laughed.

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely support and comments. They truly brighten my day! Hopefully this chapter will answer some of your questions. There will only be another chapter or two as I don't want to draw this out and possibly ruin it. There's so many amazing Jon/Sansa works out now (thanks, in part, to the new season of the show) and it's weird to think this started before when we had nothing to go on but a few sentences in the books! ^^ Anyway, I hope you enjoy this.

 

"Lady Sansa, you must stand still."

The seamstress sighed and tried again to take Sansa's measurements but the young woman would not stand still.

 

" _The_ _Seven Gods_ _who made us all,_

_are listening if we should call._

_So close your eyes, you shall not fall,_

_they see you, little children._

_Just close your eyes, you shall not fall,_

_they see you, little children_ "

 

Sansa held little Mance close to her chest and swayed back and forth. Quietly she sang songs and whispered little endearments into the shell of his ear. She was truly foolish when it came to the child but she didn't care a bit. Robb and Theon's impression was that babies were dull and they didn't understand anything until they were much older but Sansa disagreed wholeheartedly. Mance _knew_ her. She was sure that he recognised her arms and voice. One evening she had sat crying by the fire and Mance, perhaps sensing her mood, had crawled onto her lap and started playing with her hair. He had comforted her and in that moment she knew he would always be a part of her life. Mance was almost a year and a half old and yet he was still small, with tiny hands and feet, and it looked like a gust of wind could knock him over. He had his father's eyes and a shock of blonde hair that was beginning to grow on his head. Whenever Sansa bathed him she would marvel at its softness. She adored caring for him and bathing him, and was content to simply watch him play and learn in the nursery. She begged for more time with him and resented the times when the nurse took over.

She thought he was the brightest little boy she had ever met and was overjoyed when he began to speak. They were still fractured little words but it proved that he was just the same as any other child, wildling or not. Her mother doubted his abilities but Sansa was always quick to defend him. As was Arya, surprisingly.

"I don't think wildlings are any different, " she'd shrugged. "Babies are babies. They all cry and make a mess. At least this one doesn't smell so bad."

Her favourite times were when Jon visited the nursery, which he did very very rarely. He was always busy with his chores. When he did come, however, he would swing Mance up high and smile at him as though they were co-conspirators, both amused at finding themselves here.

Sansa smiled at the thought but then jumped when a pin pricked her rib. She scowled, immediately irritated by the thought of having this dress made - and what it was being made for.

She had spoken to her mother in the strictest of confidence. She had spoken very abruptly; she did not want to get married to Joffrey Baratheon. She didn't tell her the real reason, fearful that Jon would be moved away, but simply said she felt no love for the prince or any inclination towards him. Her mother had replied, very clearly, that there was little choice. Love and feelings mattered little when it came to marriage and that is was a contract, two families forming an alliance. Joffrey would be king someday and they couldn't risk falling out with the royal family.

"Father declined before and no offence was taken..." Sansa had pointed out.

"You were too young and the king was in good spirits. Back then he was your fathers truest friend. Now, however, he is surrounded by Lannister's who all but govern him and the small council. They say he had taken to drinking daily and the queen encourages it."

"But there must be another way. If I marry him, I too will be surrounded by Lannister's. Father could still take the Handship?"

"Your father is old, Sansa, and he is still in great pain from that arrow wound. You would not wish for him to take on that burden, surely?"

Sansa had felt a rush of awful guilt. "Of course not. I wasn't thinking. I want father to be safe and happy."

"I wish we could all be so. Truly, I do. But Joffrey is said to be a handsome young man with kingly qualities. You always wanted to marry southwards. You would be queen one day...Queen Sansa of the Seven Kingdoms."

"I don't want to be queen! I don't want any of that anymore. Please, mama. Speak to father and tell him I don't want this. We can find another way."

Catelyn had then taken her daughters hands and given her a sad look. "It is out of our hands, sweetling. We are women and sometimes we have to do things we don't want to do. You can resign yourself to that or make the best of it...sometimes love can grow. When I married your father I was at first afraid, thinking that he was a cold and miserable man, but love grew. I saw his kind heart and loved him. Now I have a big and beautiful family. I am very lucky."

"I want to be more than lucky," Sansa had said quietly. "Wildling women can choose who they love, I've seen it. They choose their own fates. We think we're lucky  south of the Wall but really we have no choice in anything. It doesn't seem fair."

Sansa had looked up at her mother and gently detangled her hands. Catelyn hadn't replied to that and so Sansa quickly left the room. The conversation still bothered her now. She had been so sure of her mother, sure in her wisdom and words, but she was beginning to see that her mother was simply a woman like herself.

 

Sansa waited until the seamstress was done and then took Mance back to his nursery. The woman who was appointed to look after him was a grave old woman brought in from Winter's Town. She rarely spoke and when she did it seemed to be only to complain or grovel favour. Sansa wasn't too happy about her appointment but it was her mother's decision and she couldn't change it. She would've liked to look after him herself but she had her lessons throughout the day - dance, history and religion, letters, embroidery, music. Recently she also had to spend an hour every evening with her father's steward Vayon Poole going over the household accounts so she would understand how to balance one in the future. It was incredibly tedious work. When she had any time off she would spend it with her mother and siblings or with Mance in the nursery (she was not permitted to bring Mance into her mother's rooms). Sometimes she would go riding with Robb or Theon or see Lady, but one of her favourite things to do - secretly, of course - was to watch the training yard.

She had spent many hours  studying the training yard, hidden behind a wall or window. She had to be guarded, the idea of anyone catching her would be mortifying and nobody would believe she was suddenly watching out of interest.

She watched Jon defeat Theon easily. Sometimes he beat her brother but not always. They fought as friends, laughing and teasing. That always made her smile.

She watched so she could see him. She barely had any other opportunity these days; she knew her parents were keeping them apart . Jon was strong and fast with a sword. He had always been skilled, she had seen him in battle before, of course, but now there was precision to his blows. It seemed he was learning where to hit and when to strike. His body - she realised one day with a blush - had changed as well. He was taller now and his shoulders were broader. His chest seemed larger too and when he removed his cloak she could see new powerful muscles beneath his clothes. He was a man now, with new strength and confidence.

As she watched him she felt her pulse race. She would grow uncomfortable - wanting something but not knowing what. Now, after their reunion in the Godswood, she understood perfectly. She wanted him.

And he wanted her. She felt his eyes on her at dinnertime and when she walked to her lessons. His gaze made her shiver, feeling hot and wanting. His eyes were so grey that they looked dark in the candlelight.

That evening she complained of a headache and retreated early to her rooms. Now she was woman grown she got her very own bedroom and antechamber where a maid could help her dress. Her bedroom was pretty with sweet smelling rushes and white furs draped over her bed. She had a good sized fireplace and two small chairs (a present from some courting family) sat before it where her mother or Jeyne Poole sometimes sat with her in the evening. Sansa dismissed her maid, saying she wanted to be alone tonight. She spent a long time combing her hair, relishing the feel of it, and opened up her shutters to let in the cool crisp air.

She was just about to climb into bed when her door opened and Jon slipped in.

Sansa was startled - the only men who ever entered her bedroom was her father and the measter when she felt unwell. Even Robb didn't trespass here.

She was wearing a delicate white nightgown with pearls sewn onto the sleeves but beneath that she was bare. Her coppery hair fell around her face in waves. She pushed it back with shaking hands.

She was about to speak when he strode towards her. It took him three steps to cross her room and then she was in his arms. She shook, tense and nervous, but still grabbed hold of him. Her fingers found his back, his neck, his hair. He was kissing her neck and she closed her eyes - enjoying the warm teasing feeling he provoked. She could feel his breath against her skin and it sent shivers down her back.

She looked up at him and saw desire in his eyes. He was looking down at her in wonder.

"I needed to see you," he whispered, carefully taking hold of her face. "Seeing you, always at a distance, is not enough. I need you. Touching me." The tips of his fingers felt like fire on her skin.

"I need you too."

Her hands trembled to explore him. He was dressed in a simple tunic, probably on the way to bed himself, and so she ran them up his back, feeling the soft skin there. He was so warm and she could feel those new muscles moving beneath her hand. His own hands had moved down to her breasts and she felt her heart race.

"Tell me if I'm going too far, Sansa," Jon whispered.

Sansa nodded and kissed him again. She loved kissing him, feeling the rough stubble on his jaw against her skin and the warmth of his mouth. She only ever wanted to kiss this mouth.

Jon lifted her and placed her carefully on the bed. She was about to protest when he gave her a delightfully _wicked_ look.

Sansa had only been touched by one man before - a man who had changed her life - and the memory remained with her. She could remember every detail; his hot drunken breath, his rough hands, his whispers. She wasn't sure if she hated the man or pitied him now.

Jon was gentle. He kissed every inch of exposed skin before moving downwards and - _oh!_

She didn't realise things like this even existed. She knew about the ways of bedding, about laying with a man in bed, but never about things like this. It felt _good_. More than good. Did this happen between lovers? Did Florian do this to his Jonquil? Were she and Jon lovers now? She sighed, laying her head back on the pillow as the world around them disappeared for a moment. She ran her fingers through his black hair, anchoring her.

He kissed her thigh and she giggled.

"That was wonderful."

He stretched out next to her on the bed and grinned. "I've wanted to do that to you for the longest time."

Sansa stretched out a lazy hand to trace his jaw line. "Why now?"

"I knew you wanted me to."

She leant over to kiss him, lightly.

"Will you stay here tonight?"

She felt the vibrations on the bed as he chuckled. He looked so handsome when he smiled - especially in the firelight. His eyes were bright with humour and satisfaction. She saw a flicker of smugness there too which made her smirk.

"I wish I could but a servant will likely see me in the morning. Your father's been good to me and treated me kindly, well...he did...But regardless, I don't think he'd be pleased to find out about us."

Sansa could just about picture her parents faces if they ever found out about this and nodded in agreement.

Jon kissed her one more time before leaving and promised they would see each other alone again. Soon, she made him promise.

She felt as though there was an invisible line and they had definitely crossed it.

She laughed. She was _glad_.

 

Jaime Lannister and his brother Tyrion the Imp were due to arrive any day and so scouts were sent along the Kingsroad to meet them. They were no royal party and so nothing too grand was prepared but they certainly wanted to make a good impression to the queen's brothers so the cooks prepared a modest feast for them. Maids scrubbed the floors until they shone and prepared the second best bedrooms for them. Sansa heard her parents talk about the visit in hushed tones and hoped that her mother was conveying her dismay to her father about the betrothal. Nobody said anything to her, however, except for her brothers who made fun of her on a daily basis - "so sorry for getting in your way your highness", "did you need anything your highness?", "let me fetch you that you highness" - until she wanted to scream. Once she had dreamed of being the queen in King's Landing and living in a beautiful palace but that was before her kidnap. She was a very different girl now.

She had met the two Lannister brothers on their last trip to Winterfell, although it had only been a quick introduction in the courtyard. She remembered Jaime Lannister being very handsome in gold plated armour while his brother - the Imp - was almost frightening with his mismatched eyes and height. Both had been impeccably polite and lordly, however.

This time there was no need to wait outside so formally. A maid came in the afternoon to tell her that the Lannister's had arrived and her parents wished for her to dress her best for the feast that evening. Sansa nodded, thanked the maid, and went back to practising her high harp. Arya, who was sitting beside her miserably, immediately perked up at the opportunity to see the Imp again. He was so notorious throughout the Seven Kingdoms that he was almost a fable. The two sisters dressed together that evening and Arya consented to let Sansa brush her hair.

"Your hair is as long as mothers now," Sansa remarked and began to plait it back in the northern style. She was dressed only in her small clothes as their maid quickly made an alteration to her dress. By their feet sat their wolves Nymeria and Lady, snacking on leftovers.

"I know. I wish I could cut it short," Arya pulled a face. "Yours is getting longer."

Sansa's hair now reached her shoulders but it was still too short to plait properly. Instead she tucked it up under a diamond-scattered hairnet, hoping that the jewels would make up for it. She turned so that the maid could tie the laces of her corset and then stepped into her new dress, immediately loving the feel of it despite its purpose. It was made from a pretty light grey silk with a daring neckline that showed off her new womanly curves. The sleeves were trimmed with white and were so long that they almost brushed the floor. It was undeniably a dress for a lady - for somebody at court - as silk was utterly impractical in the north. She turned, admiring herself in the mirror, and thought she looked reasonably well. She pinched her cheeks to give them some colour.

"You look nice," Arya remarked, obviously to say something nice rather than caring about appearances.

Sansa smiled and returned the compliment, although she truly meant it. Arya was wearing a dark blue dress and she would have looked very pretty if she wasn't scowling or slouching her shoulders. She was beginning to look like a true winter maid.

Arya snorted. "You were so lucky to wear breeches above the Wall," she said instead.

"I have to admit they had their advantages," Sansa admitted.

The two sisters arrived at the Great Hall together and Sansa kept her eyes lowered modestly, although it was mostly to block out the sight of her brothers mocking smiles then out of any real modesty. She also had a chance to look around for Jon but couldn't seem to find him among the crowds. The hall was packed with people, servants and lords alike, and somebody was strumming a lute in the corner. She and Arya made their way towards the High Table where they were immediately introduced.

"My daughters, Sansa and Arya. You may remember them from your last visit," her father reminded them. He was wearing his best overcoat with the Stark sigil embroidered on his chest. All of her family were dressed in their best. Even little Rickon's hair had been combed back. "Girls, this is Ser Jaime Lannister and Tyrion Lannister."

The two men rose to greet them. Jaime Lannister bowed over her hand after being introduced and gave her a dazzling smile. Tyrion Lannister was less practised but his smile seemed to be genuine. His gaze remained on her.

"Your daughters are very beautiful, my lord," Tyrion remarked. "To your credit."

Sansa took her seat in between Robb and her mother and only then raised her eyes.

"Where's Jon?" she whispered to Robb behind her hand.

"He's eating in his room," Robb whispered back. "Careful. They're all watching you."

Sansa took a small sip of summerwine - she was allowed up to three cups at dinner now - and listened to what her mother was saying about the northern countryside. There were four courses in total - a meat course, a fish course, a stew and then some sweet tarts. Wine and ale was flowing freely and she guessed there would be many with a sore head in the morning. Along the table Theon was trying to drink cup to cup with Tyrion Lannister and she knew that he couldn't hold his ale. She ate and drank a little of everything politely, but her heart continued to hammer against her chest. She was incredibly nervous. She knew that at any moment her father or one of the Lannister men would announce her fate.

After the feast, tables and chairs were pushed to the side of the hall to make way for dancing.

"May I have your permission to ask your lovely daughter for a dance?" Jaime Lannister requested of Catelyn. "There's no better sight than of a pretty girl dancing."

Catelyn nodded and Sansa rose with a polite smile. She took the Kingslayers hand and they joined the dancers on the floor. Next to them Robb was already dancing with some lords daughter and Arya was swinging around with Brann. It was a small affair but a comfortable one. Sansa felt rather nice to dance in the arms of such a celebrated knight and he was a very good dancer. She knew that there were always dances and feasts going on in Kings Landing so he was probably used to dancing with various ladies.

She glanced up at the dais and she saw the Imp watching the dancing moodily. She pitied him and resolved to ask him to dance next when her father stood up. The music stopped and her stomach dropped.

Eddard Stark was wearing a look of grim determination, as though he was doing something he didn't wholly agree with. She had seen that look before when her father was called upon to deliver the kings justice or to tell her mother some bad news. Sansa felt disappointment fill her belly. Why would her father agree to this if even he didn't wish it either? Was his friendship with the king so close to the edge? What hold did the royal family have over Eddard Stark to make him upset his daughter?

"My thanks to you all. Several years ago King Robert honoured my house with a proposal of marriage between his son and my eldest daughter. It is my... great pleasure to announce that I have accepted this offer. My Sansa will wed Prince Joffrey at the beginning of next year to mark the beginning of a long and lasting union between the houses of Baratheon and Stark."

_No_

Applause and cheering erupted from the crowds around her but Sansa shut her eyes and willed herself not to cry. She was still on the dance floor in front of everybody and it would shame her family if she showed anything but happiness over her father's decision. The Kingslayer still had hold of her arm. She opened her eyes and saw that he was watching her reaction very closely. A look of pity flashed across his face then and he clapped her shoulder gently. "Congratulations, niece."

She left the hall as soon as politeness allowed and immediately strode off towards Jon's room.

She had tried to ask her parents respectfully to stop the betrothal but they hadn't listened.

Now she would take control of her own destiny. She was a Stark daughter, after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoy writing impulsive Sansa :)


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